After the funeral, the nephews and nieces went to my uncle's flat, ostensibly to sort out a few things, but also, I think, because for those of us living at a distance, we knew it would be the last opportunity. We each took a few keepsakes. Working for the British council, he'd lived in Israel, South Africa and Tanganyika (as it was then), and as a child, I'd always been intrigued by some of the items on display in his flat. Bongo drums, African statuettes, beautiful wooden boxes. I am now the proud owner of a couple of small wooden wart-hogs, who have taken up residence on my kitchen windowsill, and a few trinket boxes. And the
P G Wodehouse paperback that my uncle was reading on the morning of the day he died.
It was moving, being in his flat. I came across a board tucked down beside the writing desk, on which was the seating plan for his 90th birthday party. So many memories, and I sensed a strong feeling of him. It was almost as if he was in the next room.
While we were all milling about, I took a phone call from Husband (who hadn't been able to come). We'd been negotiating with a potential buyer for our house in America, and they'd come up with another offer. Husband wanted my go-ahead to settle, and I didn't need long to think about it. It was the very figure we'd pre-decided would be ok. It was a wonderful moment. It's been a long year, with the house on the market, then off the market, then having a lot of cosmetic work done, then on the market again... trying to sell it, trying to let it, trying to sell it again. I ended the phone call, raised my arms in the air, and said "We've sold our house!", and my siblings and cousins rejoiced with me.
Looking round my uncle's flat for the last time, and that being the moment we finally sold our house in America, it felt that my uncle's spirit must have been involved. Had he somehow made it happen for us? Or perhaps he was just able to enjoy the moment with us, from the other side. Synchronicity and coincidence always get me wondering. I don't know how these things work. Who does know?
We've sold our house!
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Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, April 22, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
A remarkable person
I attended a funeral last Wednesday, at 11.00am, in London. No, not THAT one. It was my uncle's.
He died on Good Friday, at the age of 96. He was a lovely man, and was one of those people who took care to live well. He hadn't married or had children, and out-lived his siblings, so his 8 nephews and nieces were his next of kin. But there were, at a guess, 75 people at his funeral service. He was incredibly sociable, and had spent his life making friends, both abroad, when working for the British Council, and then in retirement in London. I don't think I know anyone who made more effort to keep up with friends. He organised his own 90th birthday party, which he held in a marquee in his next door neighbour's garden. From the nursing home where he spent his last couple of years, he would phone people regularly, and insist that they visited.
I spoke at the funeral service, and shared childhood memories of the uncle who was very much a part of our family life. What I said was echoed by others. He was always so interested in people. If he visited you by train, he would arrive with a story about the person he'd sat next to, and sometimes their entire life story. His interest crossed barriers. He was once asked by a teenager (and this is years ago) for a light. He responded by telling the youth that - speaking from personal experience - if he only knew how hard it was to give up smoking once you'd started, he wouldn't be lighting up that cigarette. The youth came back with "I asked for a light, not a lecture". My uncle was tickled pink, and lived off the story for ages. He wasn't offended at all, as many of an older generation would have been. He thought it was hilarious.
It wasn't just people that my uncle was interested in. He had a natural curiosity about anything that came his way. My brother told the story of how he had taken my uncle to Mcdonald's in Paris (there were small children involved). It was my uncle's first visit to a Mcdonald's. He chose the Filet O'Fish. He unwrapped it, opened the bun, peered inside, and returned to the counter, to ask which bit of it was the fish. Not to be rude, or clever; just because he was genuinely interested. It was The Emperor's New Clothes meets 21st century fast food.
Funerals bring out the lesser known, or at least lesser talked about, elements of a person's life. My uncle had served in Burma in 1944 with the Special Operations Executive. I knew very little about that. He had once told my brother, in detail, how to sabotage a steam train! He had also studied History at Oxford, but left without a degree. I think these days he would have been diagnosed as dyslexic. The irony is that these days, so many people leave university with a degree, but having gained relatively little from it. My uncle left with no degree, but with a lifelong interest in History, which he read widely about for the rest of his life. At the time, the family had treated his lack of a degree as a cause of great shame and embarrassment. I hope he knew, at 96, how proud we all are that he was part of our family.
With my uncle's death, Britain loses its longest operating heart pacemaker. He had it fitted in the 1970s, when it was a new and astonishing thing. I remember visiting him in hospital, all wired up, but cheerful and cracking jokes. It has served him well. It has lasted him all these years, with occasional changes of battery, and regular check-ups at which my uncle enjoyed the doctors' and nurses' interest in the oldest pacemaker of them all.
For me, the funeral event was a swirl of emotions. I was so sad, of course, but so very, very glad to be there. It's something that expats deal with so often. Would you fly home for a funeral? A wedding? A christening? To see a new baby? If someone is ill? You can't return for them all, even if money and time are no object - which, of course, they are. How do you decide whether to go or not? It's agonising. We missed so many family parties and gatherings, and each one was a loss. I was so deeply grateful to be at this funeral, (and the funeral of another uncle a month ago). Although a funeral is a sad occasion, it can be a very rich time. This one was particularly so. I loved it. I loved being part of it.
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He died on Good Friday, at the age of 96. He was a lovely man, and was one of those people who took care to live well. He hadn't married or had children, and out-lived his siblings, so his 8 nephews and nieces were his next of kin. But there were, at a guess, 75 people at his funeral service. He was incredibly sociable, and had spent his life making friends, both abroad, when working for the British Council, and then in retirement in London. I don't think I know anyone who made more effort to keep up with friends. He organised his own 90th birthday party, which he held in a marquee in his next door neighbour's garden. From the nursing home where he spent his last couple of years, he would phone people regularly, and insist that they visited.
I spoke at the funeral service, and shared childhood memories of the uncle who was very much a part of our family life. What I said was echoed by others. He was always so interested in people. If he visited you by train, he would arrive with a story about the person he'd sat next to, and sometimes their entire life story. His interest crossed barriers. He was once asked by a teenager (and this is years ago) for a light. He responded by telling the youth that - speaking from personal experience - if he only knew how hard it was to give up smoking once you'd started, he wouldn't be lighting up that cigarette. The youth came back with "I asked for a light, not a lecture". My uncle was tickled pink, and lived off the story for ages. He wasn't offended at all, as many of an older generation would have been. He thought it was hilarious.
It wasn't just people that my uncle was interested in. He had a natural curiosity about anything that came his way. My brother told the story of how he had taken my uncle to Mcdonald's in Paris (there were small children involved). It was my uncle's first visit to a Mcdonald's. He chose the Filet O'Fish. He unwrapped it, opened the bun, peered inside, and returned to the counter, to ask which bit of it was the fish. Not to be rude, or clever; just because he was genuinely interested. It was The Emperor's New Clothes meets 21st century fast food.
Funerals bring out the lesser known, or at least lesser talked about, elements of a person's life. My uncle had served in Burma in 1944 with the Special Operations Executive. I knew very little about that. He had once told my brother, in detail, how to sabotage a steam train! He had also studied History at Oxford, but left without a degree. I think these days he would have been diagnosed as dyslexic. The irony is that these days, so many people leave university with a degree, but having gained relatively little from it. My uncle left with no degree, but with a lifelong interest in History, which he read widely about for the rest of his life. At the time, the family had treated his lack of a degree as a cause of great shame and embarrassment. I hope he knew, at 96, how proud we all are that he was part of our family.
With my uncle's death, Britain loses its longest operating heart pacemaker. He had it fitted in the 1970s, when it was a new and astonishing thing. I remember visiting him in hospital, all wired up, but cheerful and cracking jokes. It has served him well. It has lasted him all these years, with occasional changes of battery, and regular check-ups at which my uncle enjoyed the doctors' and nurses' interest in the oldest pacemaker of them all.
For me, the funeral event was a swirl of emotions. I was so sad, of course, but so very, very glad to be there. It's something that expats deal with so often. Would you fly home for a funeral? A wedding? A christening? To see a new baby? If someone is ill? You can't return for them all, even if money and time are no object - which, of course, they are. How do you decide whether to go or not? It's agonising. We missed so many family parties and gatherings, and each one was a loss. I was so deeply grateful to be at this funeral, (and the funeral of another uncle a month ago). Although a funeral is a sad occasion, it can be a very rich time. This one was particularly so. I loved it. I loved being part of it.
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Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Iota's Six Top Festive Tips
Long-term followers of my blog (you poor sad people, don't you have anything better to do?) will know that I really love Christmas. So as the season starts to roll, I thought I would drip my distilled drops of wisdom, accumulated from experiences old and new, as to how to make this Christmas the most wonderful of all.
- Don't get a spaniel puppy. They poo and wee a lot on the floor. They humiliate you at puppy training classes. They bark when they are excited, which is a lot of the time. When you discuss this, outside, with the puppy trainer, she will talk about rewarding good behaviour, as if you need to become an expert in canine CBT. You will be nodding and smiling, while all the while you will be thinking "or we could just buy a kennel and he could live outside". Shouting at your puppy does not help.
- Don't have sons. They are incapable of distinguishing dirty clothes from clean. If you have to have sons, wait a few decades until Lasik have invented a corrective procedure, that will be offered to parents of boys at their birth. Shouting at your sons does not help.
- Don't have daughters. They are like whirlwinds of chaos. They have 'art projects' everywhere. They insist on growing their hair long, and then they don't want to wash it because they are too busy when it comes to bedtime. Shouting at your daughters does not help.
- Don't get married. Husbands are always right about everything, and it's very annoying. They put on a sad face with sad eyes (see "spaniel puppy" above) when you shout at them.
- Don't buy Christmas stocking fillers. You will hide them and then not remember where you have put them. Don't even bother with the shouting on this one. Those pesky stocking fillers will not hear you, and even if they do, they will not answer.
- Don't buy Christmas decorations. Don't buy fancy cardboard stars from IKEA, and wait till Sunday night to put them up. You will have mislaid the light bulbs, and it will be too late to go and buy some more (even if you could be bothered), because this is Britain where shops shut at a stupidly early hour. You won't be able to make the stars hang straight, because electric flex is so deliberately wayward, and because, quite frankly, the world is against you. Surprisingly, shouting at the IKEA stars DOES help.
If you follow these six tips, I guarantee you'll be full of festive cheer, and the season will envelop you in a flurry of goodwill and jollity, as if you were in a blizzard and every snowflake was a warm wish of happiness.
This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.
This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.
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Monday, August 13, 2012
Leaving a home
On the way up to Edinburgh, we stayed overnight with my parents in law. It was the last time we will stay in that house. They are moving too. At the same time as we have headed east from America to Scotland, they are heading east from the Pennines to the Moors. A smaller journey geographically, but who can measure these things emotionally? They are leaving the house they moved to when Husband was 13, where they have lived for nearly 40 years.
It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:
The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.
The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"
Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.
Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.
Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.
The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.
The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.
The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).
The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.
Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"
Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.
A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
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It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:
The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.
The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"
Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.
Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.
Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.
The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.
The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.
The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).
The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.
Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"
Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.
A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
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Friday, May 18, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style: Part lV
The final installment. Bessie arrives in Barbados in good spirits. She and George are married.
March 2nd
Cast anchor at six o’clock this morning. I sat at the port in my cabin, watching for the little boat that would bring my darling. I stayed there, as I did not care to be up on deck, & have all the eyes of the passengers upon me. At last a tremendous knock at my door, & I was once more face to face with my darling. Soon after we came on deck, & George introduced me to a friend of his, a Mr. Meade, to whose house I was taken. His wife is such a gem, only 23 years of age & Scotch. They have one baby, like a little doll. I am perfectly spoiled & every body is so kind to me. George lives at Mrs. Masson’s (an English family). This is Friday & I am to be married on Monday in the Barbados Cathedral at 11.30a.m. I have been confined to the couch ever since I came with rheumatic inflammation in the ankle joint. I was so terrified, for my feet were all swollen. It came on two days before I left the steamer – I could scarcely put my foot to the ground.
March 3rd
Still on the couch, & every body very busy preparing for Monday. I am to be married in my white satin, veil & wreath. People have got to hear about it & intend to see the ceremony. Mr. Meade is to be father giver, Miss Masson bridesmaid, & Mr. Shields groomsman.
March 4th (Sunday)
Still have to keep to my couch – indeed no one will allow me to do a thing for myself. I am afraid I shall be spoiled – every body is extremely good & kind to me. Mrs. Meade is only 23 years of age (I have just noticed that I mentioned this before).
March 5th
My wedding morning. Lovely flowers have been sent from all parts – baskets full – & an exquisite bridal bouquet. Such a stillness in the house – every one more excited than another. I am to be married in the Barbados Cathedral. The bridesmaid has covered a stool with white satin & put a lovely wreath of flowers all round the edge for me to kneel on in church.
At last the hour came & I went off with Mr. Meade in a carriage & pair to church. A great many people were there who had heard of me. After the ceremony we walked down the aisle & showers of flowers were thrown from the gallery & all parts. We got home through crowds of people. We had invited a few friends to a splendid lunch when the cake was cut & toasts given.
I have been staying at Hastings Hotel, a most beautiful part of the country, about four miles from Barbados. We have been driving about every day seeing all there is to see. I should have been perfectly happy if only all those dear ones at home had been here to share all the pleasures. However, that is not possible, & I must be content. I shall have to close this diary as the mail will leave soon.
We sail for Antigua on Sunday, March 11, as George is forced to get back to his practice again. He is the same dear old boy he always was. I have had a job to get all this written as George is such a dreadful tease – I cannot get anything done for him. We have had our photos taken – mine in my bridal dress, & both together. I shall write after we arrive at our own home at ‘Longlane’ & tell you all what every thing is like there.
The sugar-cane crop has just commenced, - it is very funny to see the people going about with great sticks, sucking away at it.
I must now close as I am going out shopping. I hope you will excuse all mistakes in this hasty scribble, written under great disadvantages. My only reason in sending you this is to endeavour to please you all, & to show how much I have thought of those I have left behind.
God bless you all. Good-bye.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style: Part lll
Bessie continues her journey. The initial excitement has worn off, and this is a week of mixed emotions. I have left unedited some politically incorrect terminology.
Feb. 25th (Sunday)
Had a run of 270 miles – temperature 73 degrees. Saw the drill of all the sailors on deck, & afterwards retired to the Saloon where Divine Service was read by the Captain, followed by a discourse by a dissenting Minister on board. In the evening a tropical storm got up, accompanied by thunder & lightning, the latter being extremely brilliant & appalling.
Had a few hymns – “Eternal Father, strong to save”, & some others which I enjoyed exceedingly.
Feb. 26th
Run today 283 miles. Tremendous storm on – sea washing the decks – everybody sick & miserable. The captain imagines that the storm is the tail end of one raging in more northern latitudes. Strong sun & almost cloudless sky. I spent the whole day in my cabin, I did feel so ill again. Indeed it takes me all my time to write, the ship rolls so fearfully that it makes it a great effort. Any amount of flying fish to be seen. Last night one flew on deck & was captured. It is quite a treat to hear the poor sailors calling out, after eight o’clock when all is dark, “All’s well”, at every half hour & hour. Looking over into the water there is quite a flame of phosphorescence.
Feb. 27th
Run 296 miles. Nothing very special today – lounging about, talking, & eating is about all one can find to do. Temperature 76 degrees. It is so pretty to see every one in their light costumes – I wear my pink, it does look pretty. Fancy in February – I wonder how England & Scotland are looking.
Feb 28th
Run 291 miles. Weather nice & warm – such a splendid breeze. I like it immensely & the passengers seem all sorry that our voyage will soon be at an end. The “nigger entertainment” came off tonight & was great fun. Miss Usher, Mrs. Davis and myself have been very busy all day stitching up the most remarkable costumes & sewing on paper cuffs & collars. Every one seemed to enjoy it immensely & we had a proper laugh. A few of the officers took part.
March 1st
Run 297 miles. Every body is very busy this morning packing up &c., as we expect to arrive at Barbados tomorrow morning. I do feel so strange when I think I shall see my darling so soon. We are to have our photos taken today by one of the passengers. A dance was got up this evening & the deck was all hung round with lamps. The ship was gliding along so beautifully & the sea was like a sheet of glass.
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Monday, May 14, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style: Part ll
Continuing my great-great-aunt Bessie's diary of her voyage from Southampton to Barbados, February 1883. Bessie is settling into life on board ship, and finds there is much to enjoy.
Feb. 22nd
Had a run of 316 miles. We passed the Western Islands about 12 o’clock last night. There was great excitement today watching a vessel, five miles off, ‘homeward bound’. We have seen only two vessels since the time we left England & even then ‘twas only a glimpse. The weather is simply charming – only once have we had a slight shower of rain. Had plenty of music this eve. The gentlemen are getting up a concert for Saturday eve, & have put my name down on the programme for a song. The officers on board are getting up a ‘Christy Minstrels’ for next week, so that will be a nice change. We are getting into the Tropics now – it is really beautiful on deck. The awning has just been put up.
Feb. 23rd
Had a run of 320 miles. Nothing very special to speak of today, except that a lady got a dreadful fright about one o’clock in the morning. The sea swept up with such a force against her port, that it broke the glass & swamped her cabin. She was sound asleep at the time but awoke with the fearful noise of the crash. She was literally drenched, poor thing, & has most of her clothes destroyed – she naturally thought we were all going to the bottom of the sea.
I am agreeably surprised to find how extremely social people on board ship can be; they seem to lose all the stiff formalities of society & are glad to converse on the most friendly terms. It is amusing & interesting to find out the destinations and occupations of the different passengers on such a voyage as this. Here, you have a British Consul from the Orinoco, & there a commercial traveler bound for Santa-Fe-de-Bogota. Again, this old man is, I am told, the wealthiest planter in Barbados & that stout-set middle aged man comes from the centre of Mexico. Two of our passengers are from the S. Kensington Museum, & are going out to the Caroline Islands, a small uninhabited group in the S. Pacific, to view the transit of the Moon across the face of the Sun. They expect to meet the American Expedition at Colon, from whence both parties steam across to their destination.
Feb. 24th
Had a run of 290 miles. The weather is lovely – everything seems like dreamland & every one is as happy as the day is long.
This morning the fire bell was rung (for practice) & in a moment all the sailors were on deck with blankets, pails, & anything else they could lay their hands upon, & the hose was set to work at once. Then they ran a bell & a boat was lowered into the water in a few seconds.
Our concert came off tonight & was a great success. The place was all decorated with flags & draped at each side of the open doors of the cabins – it just looked like the boxes in a theater. We all swelled ourselves up so that the effect was really splendid. When I went into my cabin to dress there was a lovely button-hole for me, sent with the chief officer’s compliments. He had cut the beautiful geranium from the plant in his room & I have been teased ever since. It is greatly surprising to find what an immense amount of musical talent there is on board, & how indefatigable all are in their efforts to amuse. We had an interval for refreshments, during which time a collection was made on behalf of the widows and orphans of the seamen in connection with the company. We subscribed 11 pounds, which was splendid.
The passengers have already changed their clothing & it looks so nice to see them in their sun hats & white trousers. The evenings are lovely,- the stars are so beautiful & clear, & the moonlight shining on the water. It all makes us very happy. No one seems to have a thought of care. The sea is covered with the Gulf Stream weed – we have been fishing it up. It is so pretty, - with green berries hanging from it.
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Friday, May 11, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style
When I was at my mother's house last summer, she showed me a diary that was kept by my grandmother's aunt (is that my great-great-aunt?). It dates from 1883. One of my cousin's had typed it up, though my mother has the original.
I think you'll enjoy it. Bessie and her sister Rachel (my great-grandmother) had been brought up in Edinburgh. Bessie got to know a young medical student, George, who lived in Antigua, and had come to Edinburgh for his medical training. They became engaged, and he returned to Antigua. The diary tells the story of her journey to join him, to be married.
I first read it last summer, soon before returning back here. It gave me pause for thought of course, how different it was in 1883, when leaving was truly leaving. No email, no phone, no Skype. Now I've read it again, and I find it strangely circular that Bessie and Rachel grew up in Edinburgh, because that's where I'm headed next (I've been coy about telling you specifically where I'm moving to, but I think you might as well know). I love the language - old and quaint. Some of the things she says are the kind of thing an old-fashioned me might have said - or am I just imagining that, because I want to feel a connection to her?
I'll edit a little as I go, but I find it hard to take anything out - it's all pretty interesting. The italics in parentheses are my comments, but I've kept them to a minimum.
Oh, and one last thing. I'm going to let you in on a fact that Bessie didn't know about her future. You'll pick up from her letter how hard she found it to leave her sister Rachel. Well, she needn't have worried. Rachel found herself her own student from Antigua, Ralph, who came to Edinburgh to train as a lawyer. She married him, and joined Bessie and George in Antigua. It almost feels like cheating, to know that while reading the journal, but I thought you'd like to know.
Here's the first instalment.
I think you'll enjoy it. Bessie and her sister Rachel (my great-grandmother) had been brought up in Edinburgh. Bessie got to know a young medical student, George, who lived in Antigua, and had come to Edinburgh for his medical training. They became engaged, and he returned to Antigua. The diary tells the story of her journey to join him, to be married.
I first read it last summer, soon before returning back here. It gave me pause for thought of course, how different it was in 1883, when leaving was truly leaving. No email, no phone, no Skype. Now I've read it again, and I find it strangely circular that Bessie and Rachel grew up in Edinburgh, because that's where I'm headed next (I've been coy about telling you specifically where I'm moving to, but I think you might as well know). I love the language - old and quaint. Some of the things she says are the kind of thing an old-fashioned me might have said - or am I just imagining that, because I want to feel a connection to her?
I'll edit a little as I go, but I find it hard to take anything out - it's all pretty interesting. The italics in parentheses are my comments, but I've kept them to a minimum.
Oh, and one last thing. I'm going to let you in on a fact that Bessie didn't know about her future. You'll pick up from her letter how hard she found it to leave her sister Rachel. Well, she needn't have worried. Rachel found herself her own student from Antigua, Ralph, who came to Edinburgh to train as a lawyer. She married him, and joined Bessie and George in Antigua. It almost feels like cheating, to know that while reading the journal, but I thought you'd like to know.
Here's the first instalment.
S.S. Medway
Lat. 38.47 N – Long 22.W
Feb 21st. 1883
My Voyage to the West Indies
Sat. 17th inst.
Left Uncle Ralph’s at 6.30 in the morning for Waterloo Sta:. Janet Harrison [Bessie’s cousin] & Rachel [Bessie's older sister] accompanying me. Uncle Harry was waiting patiently for us – he brought with him a beautiful Bible for me, which I prize very much. Mr. Bain & Mr. Muir had just left the station, thinking I would leave by an earlier train, as I had intended. They had to be in time for business so were compelled to leave without seeing me. I was very sorry I did not see them to wish them Good-bye. The train left for Southampton at 8.5 a.m. It was a very tiresome journey, as neither Rachel nor I felt very bright. On arriving at Southampton, Mr. Reith was waiting for us. I don’t know what we should have done without him; he was extremely kind & saw my luggage and everything right; for which I was very thankful. We went out in a tender to the ‘Medway’ & lunched there, Mr. Reith, Rachel & all those who were seeing their friends off joining us in the repast.
As the time of our departure drew near I could scarcely express my feelings. I only knew I was leaving dear old England perhaps for ever, & all those who had been so dear to me, for a foreign clime. I felt as though my heart would break but I dare not encourage it. We ‘lifted’ our anchor at 3.30 p.m. & as dear Rachel & Mr. Reith got on board the little tender, the ‘Medway’ moved quietly away – I started my first trip across the Atlantic. Wind rather fresh & my feelings far from so. [I love that sentence.] We reached the ‘Needles’ at 5.30 where our pilot left us. By this time dinner was ready. I had no sooner seated myself at the table, than I had to rise & go to my cabin. I was so ill. (I had the cabin all to myself). I lay there prostrate, more dead than alive, not caring for anything. I tried to get up on Monday but was only too thankful to tumble in again. However, I succeeded on Tuesday & went in to dinner for the first time. I soon began to get my strength back again.
Among the passengers, numbering about 80 in the Saloon and 14 or 15 children, there are some 16 ladies, two brides & bridegrooms, two twice chosen wives & ‘half a bride’ as I am described. The ‘Swells’ on board include Lord Combermere & his son, Major-Gen. McNeil, K.C.B., Col. Nugent, the Governor of Grenada & Dr. Freeland (the gentleman whom George has been acting for while on his visit to England), his wife & little girl. They are taking out an assistant, Dr. Davis & his wife, just two weeks married. She is a very nice person & we have become great friends. They always wait for me every where they go & will live about ¾ of an hour’s drive from ‘Longlane’ (my home to be). Then there is a Dr. Boyd and his wife, also newly married, who are going to St Vincent; Mr. Musson & his nephew have just been on a visit to England & are going back to Barbados. Mr. Goodhard, a very nice gentleman (on a pleasure trip for two months) always takes me in to dinner. We have a very nice company at our table. Mr Bicknell is retired & travels about for pleasure. He is also an astronomer & very clever, & has with him a great number of splendid instruments.
We have had marvellous weather, the passage being the driest on record for the time of year though the ship rolls greatly.
We have splendid living on board – a cup of tea in bed at 6 o’clock in the morning; then breakfast at 9 o’clock with three or four courses, & always potatoes; then dinner at 5 o’clock with eight or nine courses & tea at half past seven. Nothing but sleeping, eating & lounging about. There are very few people on board writing a ‘diary’, strange to say you can scarcely settle your mind to write on board ship, & besides it rolls so, the pen always seems inclined to slide right down the paper.
I wonder how all the dear ones at home are – if they could only see me in my little cabin. My port is open & I can hear the water splashing up against the ship. My thoughts are far away – cannot write more today.
.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Tornado
If ever there was a bloggable moment, this is it. It's amazing that we have power. A tornado has just come through the city, and power lines must be down all over. I'm glad we do, though. I like to connect with you all, in the stillness that has become my night.
Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.
The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.
We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.
So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.
We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.
I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.
We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.
I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.
We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.
The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.
The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.
And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.
I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.
I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.
There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?
I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.
Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.
The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.
We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.
So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.
We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.
I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.
We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.
I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.
We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.
The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.
The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.
And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.
I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.
I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.
There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?
I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.
Friday, January 6, 2012
My nephew's a potential blogger!
There are worse things.
My nephew is 21. He's at university, studying French, Spanish and History, and is spending his third year abroad, in Spain, teaching English in a Spanish school. His teaching hours are arranged so that he gets a long week-end every week, so he heads off and is getting to know Spain. He is going to start a blog, and emailed me to ask my advice (I know, I know, how flattering is that?) He is a serious traveler (did South America in his gap year, Central America last summer), and a bit of a photographer too.
So Bloggy Friends, let's do a straw poll on his behalf. Blogger, Wordpress, personal website, or other? Can you recommend any websites that are really helpful on the subject of setting up a blog? I know some of you have written on the subject, in which case feel free to include your own link - though not if it's only relevant to mummy blogging, obviously. I know in our hearts we're all 21 and adventuring every week-end in Spain, but how much did that come across when you were writing that post about setting up a mummy blog?
Please comment if you have something to say, whether you're a regular reader, or just a passing browser. I'm sure it'll help him on his way.
My nephew is 21. He's at university, studying French, Spanish and History, and is spending his third year abroad, in Spain, teaching English in a Spanish school. His teaching hours are arranged so that he gets a long week-end every week, so he heads off and is getting to know Spain. He is going to start a blog, and emailed me to ask my advice (I know, I know, how flattering is that?) He is a serious traveler (did South America in his gap year, Central America last summer), and a bit of a photographer too.
So Bloggy Friends, let's do a straw poll on his behalf. Blogger, Wordpress, personal website, or other? Can you recommend any websites that are really helpful on the subject of setting up a blog? I know some of you have written on the subject, in which case feel free to include your own link - though not if it's only relevant to mummy blogging, obviously. I know in our hearts we're all 21 and adventuring every week-end in Spain, but how much did that come across when you were writing that post about setting up a mummy blog?
Please comment if you have something to say, whether you're a regular reader, or just a passing browser. I'm sure it'll help him on his way.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Birthday party
Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of my older brother. Big family party. Thirty-five people: mostly first cousins, their spouses and children, and a few family friends. Sunny day. Outside on the lawn, chairs or rugs, depending on age and agility. Food and drink.
Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.
Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.
"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.
My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.
I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.
Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?
I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.
.
Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.
Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.
"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.
My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.
I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.
Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?
I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.
.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Therapy in the toy store: Part l
You don’t just get a toy, when you come to the toy shop. You get therapy, and like the gift wrap service, it’s free.
Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.
We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.
We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”
We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.
We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.
Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.
I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.
The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.
Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.
We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.
We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”
We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.
We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.
Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.
I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.
The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A favourite Christmas moment
We have been watching a lot of The Waltons recently. It’s hard to find a movie or tv programme that keeps everyone happy, given the age range of our children, from 6 to 13. The Waltons seems to fit nicely. And it’s so darn wholesome too. Husband and I can sit back and feel smug about the lessons that our children are learning of the values of family life, the common sense morality, the homespun wisdom… Many of the episodes are familiar, so they must have had a big effect on me when I watched them over 30 years ago. I loved The Waltons, as a child. Now I see my own children equally caught up, with 6-yo deciding she wants to be called Elizabeth, and the boys arguing over whether Ben should or shouldn’t have told the family that he had failed to shoot a turkey for Thanksgiving, and had ended up buying it instead.
It’s not all easy watching. In the depression in rural Virginia, the family and their community struggle to make ends meet. The children go to school in bare feet. The programmes don’t shy away from traumatic events. Mary Ellen’s husband was killed at Pearl Harbor in a recent episode we saw. But they are rich stories, and though things don’t always end well, there is good at the core. And there's a great theme tune to boot.
I have to confess that my inner teenager has a bit of a girlie crush on Johnboy. My inner teenager is fickle, because when I watched The Waltons decades ago as a real teenager, it was the dreamy Jason or the impetuous Ben who held my interest. But now it’s Johnboy. It’s the struggling writer thing that I’ve fallen for. There he is, lynchpin of the family, wavering between boyhood and manhood, more parent than older brother to the younger brood, and then each evening, he seeks the solitude of his own room, and writes feverishly, capturing the ordinary and the extraordinary in his stories of everyday life on Walton’s Mountain. Each episode begins with his mature reflection on the events that will unfold. He is in the story, but he is detached from it: a participant but also an observer. Johnboy Walton was a most excellent blogger, before blogging was invented.
Oh alas, Johnboy. How much easier you’d have found it these days. With broadband arriving at Walton’s Mountain, a whole world would have opened up for you. No more mailing off stories to hard-faced publishers, and waiting for disappointment after disappointment as the manuscripts are returned to you with rejection letters. No, you’d definitely be a top blogger, with your winsome tales of your siblings, and your nuggets of insight into the complexities of family life. What would your blog be called, I wonder? Perhaps one of the following: A Modern Mountain, Johnography, Mountain Tips, Bringing Up JimBob, Virginia Scribble, John Boyfoix, More than Just a Walton. Or how about The Johnota Quota? I’m glad you made it in the end, Johnboy, even with no blog to foster your nascent writing skills.
Here is one of my favourite Walton moments. It’s a blooper with an appropriate Christmas theme, which made me laugh decades ago, back in the days when you had to catch bloopers once a year on a Dennis Norden seasonal special, and savour them enough to last a Youtube-less year.
It’s not all easy watching. In the depression in rural Virginia, the family and their community struggle to make ends meet. The children go to school in bare feet. The programmes don’t shy away from traumatic events. Mary Ellen’s husband was killed at Pearl Harbor in a recent episode we saw. But they are rich stories, and though things don’t always end well, there is good at the core. And there's a great theme tune to boot.
I have to confess that my inner teenager has a bit of a girlie crush on Johnboy. My inner teenager is fickle, because when I watched The Waltons decades ago as a real teenager, it was the dreamy Jason or the impetuous Ben who held my interest. But now it’s Johnboy. It’s the struggling writer thing that I’ve fallen for. There he is, lynchpin of the family, wavering between boyhood and manhood, more parent than older brother to the younger brood, and then each evening, he seeks the solitude of his own room, and writes feverishly, capturing the ordinary and the extraordinary in his stories of everyday life on Walton’s Mountain. Each episode begins with his mature reflection on the events that will unfold. He is in the story, but he is detached from it: a participant but also an observer. Johnboy Walton was a most excellent blogger, before blogging was invented.
Oh alas, Johnboy. How much easier you’d have found it these days. With broadband arriving at Walton’s Mountain, a whole world would have opened up for you. No more mailing off stories to hard-faced publishers, and waiting for disappointment after disappointment as the manuscripts are returned to you with rejection letters. No, you’d definitely be a top blogger, with your winsome tales of your siblings, and your nuggets of insight into the complexities of family life. What would your blog be called, I wonder? Perhaps one of the following: A Modern Mountain, Johnography, Mountain Tips, Bringing Up JimBob, Virginia Scribble, John Boyfoix, More than Just a Walton. Or how about The Johnota Quota? I’m glad you made it in the end, Johnboy, even with no blog to foster your nascent writing skills.
Here is one of my favourite Walton moments. It’s a blooper with an appropriate Christmas theme, which made me laugh decades ago, back in the days when you had to catch bloopers once a year on a Dennis Norden seasonal special, and savour them enough to last a Youtube-less year.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Taking a break
I’ve really struggled with this post. You see, I want to take a break from blogging over the summer. I thought I could get to you to click on the play button below, and create in your minds a picture of me shimmying off into the distance, passport in one hand, mug of tea in the other, no way of carrying a laptop too. “I’m heading to the UK, and I don’t want to be writing blog posts all summer”, I would have said breezily. And that would have been a fair picture. Well, fair-ish anyway. So go ahead and click (it’s a great song, you’ll enjoy it).
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Shadowy Husband
What would you like to know about Shadowy Husband? I’d better start at the beginning. (Apologies for a lengthy post.)
Husband and I met at a place called Lee Abbey, a Christian conference and holiday centre on the north coast of Devon. Lovely place, does good cream teas if you’re ever passing. He was on the staff there, and I went down for 8 weeks as a summer volunteer, when I was what is politely called “between jobs”. I’d walked out of one bad (very bad) job situation before sorting out the next, and was feeling on the one hand that at 29 I was too old to do that kind of irresponsible thing, and on the other, very liberated and rather proud of myself for being so brave. Husband thought to himself “here’s a woman who gives up a perfectly civilized life and heads West to a future of uncertainty - that’s something that might come in useful later on”, and married me.
At that point in his life, he had been ordained in the Church of England, going pretty much straight from university to theological college (seminary). He’d done one curacy, a miserable period of his life since it coincided with the beginning of a 6-year period of severe depression, and also included a 1-year interregnum between vicars, when he was in total charge of running a large parish (usually a 2-person parish), doing all weekly services, weddings, funerals, baptisms, meetings, you name it, on the basis of very little experience. Depression was looked on very differently in the late 80s. It was just about OK for women, but not for a man, a young man, and certainly not a man of the cloth. If people didn’t actually say “snap out of it”, he was frequently left in no doubt that that’s what they thought. He was out of the worst of it by the time we met, but kept telling me, in our early days, how he wasn’t sure he was ready for a relationship, and felt incapable of relating normally to people. I saw how very popular and respected he was by the rest of the large lay community that runs Lee Abbey, and how guests seemed drawn to him too, and decided to make my own judgment. The depression has never returned since those 6 years, and although I’m writing about it here, neither of us thinks about it much at all these days. It made for an unusual start to our journey together, though.
After Lee Abbey, Husband worked as a university chaplain (he had joined me in London), and again in parish ministry. Then he went back to being a full-time student, and did a PhD in Theology, as you do, and that was when he found his vocation. He loves studying theology, and he loves teaching. He is a man in his element. His job here has taken him off at a bit of a tangent: he’s a Professor of Philosophy and Ethics (I know, I know, doesn’t sound very different to Theology, but it is to him). If you want to know why we came to the Midwest for him to pursue his dream career, you could perform this exercise: count the number of universities in the UK that offer Theology, count the number of people who want to teach Theology, divide the first by the second. I try not to do it too often. Bit depressing.
Anyway, all this tells you what he does, but it doesn’t really tell you what he’s like. I’m coming to that.
Husband is a patient man. Sometimes he comes in from work, and I will witter on at him about the trivia of my day for ages (I think I’ve mentioned before my capacity to witter). If he is inwardly thinking “who is this unstoppable maniac, and what has she done with that nice woman I married who was capable of intelligent conversation?” his face doesn’t betray it for a split second. I see the same thing when he is talking to other people. He is genuinely interested in them, and gives them time and space in a way that I think is unusual. He enjoyed taking communion to elderly housebound people in the parish, and spent twice as much time on the job as his predecessor. He has had to learn to temper this quality a little with his students, who would otherwise happily gobble up all his spare office time with the desire to spout tales of their own adolescent musings, thinly disguised as a thirst for knowledge.
I wouldn’t be giving you an accurate picture of Husband if I didn’t talk about his books. We have lots of them in our house (and those are the ones that don’t fit on the bookshelves in his office). Lots and lots. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.
Husband loves children and babies. When I was first getting to know him, I noticed how he would talk about friends of his, but start off by telling me about their children. There were photos around of him tossing toddlers in the air, chasing older kids, cuddling babies. I remember once at that time telling him he was good with kids and asking him what his secret was. I confessed that I felt awkward around them.
“You just have to talk to them” he said.
“I try to, but I never know what to talk about, and they just go silent.”
“You just have to ask them questions about what they’re interested in, until you get to know them. Like talking to anyone.”
“Well, what ARE 3 year olds interested in?”
“All kinds of things…”
He seemed to think it was easy. Before I had my own first baby, I’d never changed a nappy. He’d done lots, including the old terry squares that you had to fold into a kite shape. He was way ahead of me.
I have a clear memory of him, holding our first newborn while I was in the bath after delivery. He was sitting on a cramped stool in the tiny hospital bathroom, with a 7lb 9oz bundle tucked into the crook of one elbow, chatting to me (hm, on reflection, it was probably me doing the chatting…), and looking for all the world as if this was his day job.
Husband is one of a rare breed. He is genuine. If you cut him down the middle with a knife, at his core you would find an intense nugget of what you see on the outside, and the space between would all be made of the same stuff too. I’m not sure most of us are like that. He holds to ideals, to the point where personal sacrifice is involved (he once lost a job, badly, for sticking to principles). History shows that if push comes to shove, most of us will potter down a slippery slope of morality, and end up reporting neighbours and friends to the secret police, if it means safeguarding ourselves and our family. Husband would be that man in prison, or worse, for having refused to cross a line somewhere along the way. It worries me sometimes, but I admire him hugely. It’s a quality that means he finds working in institutions a challenge. He continually expects the organization to function efficiently, and people to behave honestly and openly, and is continually disappointed.
As befits a philosophy Prof, Husband is touchingly disengaged from the worst excesses of modern day culture. He has no interest in designer goods, keeping up with the latest fashion in whatever it is, or big names. (I don’t either, actually, but I’m a less extreme example than he is.) This is partly a deliberate choice and partly because he is truly uninterested. He is hopelessly ignorant when it comes to celebrities, doesn’t know who they are, can’t identify them in pictures, cares not a jot what they’re wearing, seeing or doing, and is totally unembarrassed when this lack of knowledge is discovered. I have long given up covering for him in conversation. I now find it endearing, and honestly, I think he’s the one who’s got the right attitude, in the midst of our rather mad world.
Let me quote you a recent conversation. Husband had brought home from the mall several perfume samples, for me to choose between for a birthday present.
Husband: This one’s called “Kate Moss”. Don’t know why.
Me: Yes, you do. Come on. You’ve heard of Kate Moss.
H: Have I? Is she an actress?
Me: No. Try the other thing you know to guess.
H: A model?
Me: Well done. Look (click, click, google, click). Here’s a picture of her.
H: (peering with trademark myopic squint) Oh… yes… I think I might recognize her. [He probably doesn’t. Ed.] But why have they called a perfume after her?
Me: Well, I suppose it’s because women will buy it, because at some level they think that if they use it, it will make them a tiny bit more like her. (Seeing bemused look on H’s face) Silly, yes, obviously, but maybe I should try it.
H: Why would you want to look like her?
Me: Well, a lot of people think she’s very attractive. Would you like me to look like her?
H: Why would I like you to look like her? Then you’d never smile, you’d be far too skinny, like a skeleton, all angular, and you’d probably do that stupid slouchy walk too.
The thing is, he’s not just saying that to make me feel good. He really means it. Do you know how liberating it is to be married to such opinions?
What else? He’s patient, kind, thoughtful, incisive, funny, and oh, I have to tell you this. Every morning, he makes me a cup of tea and brings it to me in bed. Every morning. Eat your skinny slouchy-walk heart out, Kate Moss. I’ve never finally discerned whether he does it because he is a thoroughly nice man and an attentive husband, or because he prefers getting through the first half hour of the day with a functioning woman as company, rather than a grunting mono-syllabic zombie. Let’s assume the former.
And hills. I forgot to mention hills (we’re neither of us really Great Plains people…) He loves being outdoors, camping, biking and hiking. As a teenager, he walked 84 miles in one day. He’d done the 42 mile Lyke Wake Walk, across the North York Moors from west to east, for years running, so one year decided with a friend to do it there and back again, in 24 hours. They succeeded on the second attempt. He loves the mountains of Scotland, and has a favourite one: Stac Pollaidh. I’ve never been there (even though we lived in Scotland for 6 years) – it’s on our joint list of things to do.
One last thing (and not many people know about this). He is remarkably good at hopping. He can hop faster over a short distance than an average 5 year old can run (we've tried it). It’s such a shame sprint-hopping was never an Olympic sport. If they do introduce it, it’ll be too late for him now – I’m afraid he’s past his hopping prime. What can you do with an ability to hop? It’s such an under-valued talent.
Husband’s perfect day would include a long walk in the hills, a dam-building project in a stream with the children, preferably with a smooth expanse of water nearby to show off his prodigious stone-skimming skills, a steak, a full-bodied red wine, sticky toffee pudding, the cricket highlights on tv (England winning), an episode of Blackadder, and an early night with a weighty theological tome. Oh, and me.
.
Husband and I met at a place called Lee Abbey, a Christian conference and holiday centre on the north coast of Devon. Lovely place, does good cream teas if you’re ever passing. He was on the staff there, and I went down for 8 weeks as a summer volunteer, when I was what is politely called “between jobs”. I’d walked out of one bad (very bad) job situation before sorting out the next, and was feeling on the one hand that at 29 I was too old to do that kind of irresponsible thing, and on the other, very liberated and rather proud of myself for being so brave. Husband thought to himself “here’s a woman who gives up a perfectly civilized life and heads West to a future of uncertainty - that’s something that might come in useful later on”, and married me.
At that point in his life, he had been ordained in the Church of England, going pretty much straight from university to theological college (seminary). He’d done one curacy, a miserable period of his life since it coincided with the beginning of a 6-year period of severe depression, and also included a 1-year interregnum between vicars, when he was in total charge of running a large parish (usually a 2-person parish), doing all weekly services, weddings, funerals, baptisms, meetings, you name it, on the basis of very little experience. Depression was looked on very differently in the late 80s. It was just about OK for women, but not for a man, a young man, and certainly not a man of the cloth. If people didn’t actually say “snap out of it”, he was frequently left in no doubt that that’s what they thought. He was out of the worst of it by the time we met, but kept telling me, in our early days, how he wasn’t sure he was ready for a relationship, and felt incapable of relating normally to people. I saw how very popular and respected he was by the rest of the large lay community that runs Lee Abbey, and how guests seemed drawn to him too, and decided to make my own judgment. The depression has never returned since those 6 years, and although I’m writing about it here, neither of us thinks about it much at all these days. It made for an unusual start to our journey together, though.
After Lee Abbey, Husband worked as a university chaplain (he had joined me in London), and again in parish ministry. Then he went back to being a full-time student, and did a PhD in Theology, as you do, and that was when he found his vocation. He loves studying theology, and he loves teaching. He is a man in his element. His job here has taken him off at a bit of a tangent: he’s a Professor of Philosophy and Ethics (I know, I know, doesn’t sound very different to Theology, but it is to him). If you want to know why we came to the Midwest for him to pursue his dream career, you could perform this exercise: count the number of universities in the UK that offer Theology, count the number of people who want to teach Theology, divide the first by the second. I try not to do it too often. Bit depressing.
Anyway, all this tells you what he does, but it doesn’t really tell you what he’s like. I’m coming to that.
Husband is a patient man. Sometimes he comes in from work, and I will witter on at him about the trivia of my day for ages (I think I’ve mentioned before my capacity to witter). If he is inwardly thinking “who is this unstoppable maniac, and what has she done with that nice woman I married who was capable of intelligent conversation?” his face doesn’t betray it for a split second. I see the same thing when he is talking to other people. He is genuinely interested in them, and gives them time and space in a way that I think is unusual. He enjoyed taking communion to elderly housebound people in the parish, and spent twice as much time on the job as his predecessor. He has had to learn to temper this quality a little with his students, who would otherwise happily gobble up all his spare office time with the desire to spout tales of their own adolescent musings, thinly disguised as a thirst for knowledge.
I wouldn’t be giving you an accurate picture of Husband if I didn’t talk about his books. We have lots of them in our house (and those are the ones that don’t fit on the bookshelves in his office). Lots and lots. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.
Husband loves children and babies. When I was first getting to know him, I noticed how he would talk about friends of his, but start off by telling me about their children. There were photos around of him tossing toddlers in the air, chasing older kids, cuddling babies. I remember once at that time telling him he was good with kids and asking him what his secret was. I confessed that I felt awkward around them.
“You just have to talk to them” he said.
“I try to, but I never know what to talk about, and they just go silent.”
“You just have to ask them questions about what they’re interested in, until you get to know them. Like talking to anyone.”
“Well, what ARE 3 year olds interested in?”
“All kinds of things…”
He seemed to think it was easy. Before I had my own first baby, I’d never changed a nappy. He’d done lots, including the old terry squares that you had to fold into a kite shape. He was way ahead of me.
I have a clear memory of him, holding our first newborn while I was in the bath after delivery. He was sitting on a cramped stool in the tiny hospital bathroom, with a 7lb 9oz bundle tucked into the crook of one elbow, chatting to me (hm, on reflection, it was probably me doing the chatting…), and looking for all the world as if this was his day job.
Husband is one of a rare breed. He is genuine. If you cut him down the middle with a knife, at his core you would find an intense nugget of what you see on the outside, and the space between would all be made of the same stuff too. I’m not sure most of us are like that. He holds to ideals, to the point where personal sacrifice is involved (he once lost a job, badly, for sticking to principles). History shows that if push comes to shove, most of us will potter down a slippery slope of morality, and end up reporting neighbours and friends to the secret police, if it means safeguarding ourselves and our family. Husband would be that man in prison, or worse, for having refused to cross a line somewhere along the way. It worries me sometimes, but I admire him hugely. It’s a quality that means he finds working in institutions a challenge. He continually expects the organization to function efficiently, and people to behave honestly and openly, and is continually disappointed.
As befits a philosophy Prof, Husband is touchingly disengaged from the worst excesses of modern day culture. He has no interest in designer goods, keeping up with the latest fashion in whatever it is, or big names. (I don’t either, actually, but I’m a less extreme example than he is.) This is partly a deliberate choice and partly because he is truly uninterested. He is hopelessly ignorant when it comes to celebrities, doesn’t know who they are, can’t identify them in pictures, cares not a jot what they’re wearing, seeing or doing, and is totally unembarrassed when this lack of knowledge is discovered. I have long given up covering for him in conversation. I now find it endearing, and honestly, I think he’s the one who’s got the right attitude, in the midst of our rather mad world.
Let me quote you a recent conversation. Husband had brought home from the mall several perfume samples, for me to choose between for a birthday present.
Husband: This one’s called “Kate Moss”. Don’t know why.
Me: Yes, you do. Come on. You’ve heard of Kate Moss.
H: Have I? Is she an actress?
Me: No. Try the other thing you know to guess.
H: A model?
Me: Well done. Look (click, click, google, click). Here’s a picture of her.
H: (peering with trademark myopic squint) Oh… yes… I think I might recognize her. [He probably doesn’t. Ed.] But why have they called a perfume after her?
Me: Well, I suppose it’s because women will buy it, because at some level they think that if they use it, it will make them a tiny bit more like her. (Seeing bemused look on H’s face) Silly, yes, obviously, but maybe I should try it.
H: Why would you want to look like her?
Me: Well, a lot of people think she’s very attractive. Would you like me to look like her?
H: Why would I like you to look like her? Then you’d never smile, you’d be far too skinny, like a skeleton, all angular, and you’d probably do that stupid slouchy walk too.
The thing is, he’s not just saying that to make me feel good. He really means it. Do you know how liberating it is to be married to such opinions?
What else? He’s patient, kind, thoughtful, incisive, funny, and oh, I have to tell you this. Every morning, he makes me a cup of tea and brings it to me in bed. Every morning. Eat your skinny slouchy-walk heart out, Kate Moss. I’ve never finally discerned whether he does it because he is a thoroughly nice man and an attentive husband, or because he prefers getting through the first half hour of the day with a functioning woman as company, rather than a grunting mono-syllabic zombie. Let’s assume the former.
And hills. I forgot to mention hills (we’re neither of us really Great Plains people…) He loves being outdoors, camping, biking and hiking. As a teenager, he walked 84 miles in one day. He’d done the 42 mile Lyke Wake Walk, across the North York Moors from west to east, for years running, so one year decided with a friend to do it there and back again, in 24 hours. They succeeded on the second attempt. He loves the mountains of Scotland, and has a favourite one: Stac Pollaidh. I’ve never been there (even though we lived in Scotland for 6 years) – it’s on our joint list of things to do.
One last thing (and not many people know about this). He is remarkably good at hopping. He can hop faster over a short distance than an average 5 year old can run (we've tried it). It’s such a shame sprint-hopping was never an Olympic sport. If they do introduce it, it’ll be too late for him now – I’m afraid he’s past his hopping prime. What can you do with an ability to hop? It’s such an under-valued talent.
Husband’s perfect day would include a long walk in the hills, a dam-building project in a stream with the children, preferably with a smooth expanse of water nearby to show off his prodigious stone-skimming skills, a steak, a full-bodied red wine, sticky toffee pudding, the cricket highlights on tv (England winning), an episode of Blackadder, and an early night with a weighty theological tome. Oh, and me.
.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Nature calls
One of the things I miss most about life in Britain is the countryside, or not even the countryside, just the freedom to potter about in the outdoors. Here, the land outside the city is agricultural and inaccessible to walkers (no paths, barbed wire fences on a huge scale), and let’s face it, very flat and featureless. There are parks in the city, but they’re very small, and what you might call functional rather than beautiful.
We find we pay increasingly frequent week-end visits to the Nature Park. It’s small (a rectangle exactly a mile by half a mile), and surrounded by dual carriageways, so the chirping of the crickets has to compete with the noise of the traffic, and in winter when there aren’t leaves on the trees, you can see the large concrete building and big square orange logo of Home Depot from pretty much wherever you are in the Park. Nonetheless, green space is green space, and I am grateful for it.
The children share our excitement. When Husband and I suggest an afternoon walk in the Nature Park, they’re like little crickets themselves, jumping up and down and chorusing merrily “oh no, not AGAIN, boooring, do we have to? can I get some extra playstation time if I come?” Their enthusiasm is infectious, and we head off, beckoned by the call of the wild.
It was a really beautiful afternoon there today. Warm sun, strong breeze, clouds wandering across a blue sky, autumn colours at their finest. Autumn has always been my favourite season, but I realise now my previous experience of it has been somewhat impoverished. The trees and shrubs here put on a much better show – deep reds, earthy maroons, bright oranges, startling yellows. I don’t say this lightly. I grew up in the Chilterns, so I thought I knew a thing or two about autumn beauty. The beech woods can be stunning, majestic, exhilarating. But here, the season lasts so much longer, the variety is greater, the display more dramatic, and the weather still summery enough to allow full enjoyment of it.
This afternoon, for example, the Nature Park looked like this (you'll have to click to enlarge to do the colours justice):
There are always turtles to be seen, paddling along lugubriously or sunning themselves on logs, and a few weeks ago I spotted a muskrat in the water. There are elegant herons, and rather overfed ducks, who swim past hunks of bread floating in the water without even a second glance (this is a Nature Park on the edge of a big city, after all, not the wilderness). Dragonflies and damselflies dart in front of us. Crickets sun themselves on the paths, so old and slow this late in the season that we have to be careful not to tread on them before they leap away. Imagine being able to get close enough to take a photo like this (um... you'll definitely need to click to enlarge that one!).
Large spiders sit in the middle of their enormous webs, and 7-yo, who has been learning about them in science, tells us about their habits, and identifies the different kinds of web.
These are hedge apples, which are such a luminous, almost neon, green that we first told the kids that they were alien brains, fallen out of the sky, (but don’t worry, we only kept that story going for a few minutes – we didn’t want nightmares disturbing their and our sleep). They are solid and large (to give you the scale, this one is pictured in four year old hands), and they make a satisfying splash when lobbed into the creek.
I love this place. For me, it offers the perfect blend of familiarity and novelty. I know my way round the color-coded trails, enough at least to navigate back to the car park by the shortest route if legs are tired, or to promise that we’ll be crossing another creek if hedge apples are being collected. The wildlife and flora still seem exotic to me, though. “Get me” I think to myself, “watching snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”, and I tuck the thought away so that in years to come I can say “In America, we used to watch snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”. Even the complaining which precedes the trip has developed a comforting feeling of family ritual about it (they complain, but we know from experience that they'll have a good time). It was thus when we lived in Scotland (“why do we ALWAYS have to go to the beach or Tentsmiur?”) and I remember it from the week-ends of my own childhood too. But I couldn’t identify a zipper spider (also known as a writing spider) in those days.
I am very cautious about posting photos on the web, and I guard my family’s anonymity carefully, but I thought this one of our shadows on the water was safe enough.
And, getting brave now, I didn’t think back views could hurt. Here are 7-yo, 11-yo and Husband.
And here is 4-yo.
We find we pay increasingly frequent week-end visits to the Nature Park. It’s small (a rectangle exactly a mile by half a mile), and surrounded by dual carriageways, so the chirping of the crickets has to compete with the noise of the traffic, and in winter when there aren’t leaves on the trees, you can see the large concrete building and big square orange logo of Home Depot from pretty much wherever you are in the Park. Nonetheless, green space is green space, and I am grateful for it.
The children share our excitement. When Husband and I suggest an afternoon walk in the Nature Park, they’re like little crickets themselves, jumping up and down and chorusing merrily “oh no, not AGAIN, boooring, do we have to? can I get some extra playstation time if I come?” Their enthusiasm is infectious, and we head off, beckoned by the call of the wild.
It was a really beautiful afternoon there today. Warm sun, strong breeze, clouds wandering across a blue sky, autumn colours at their finest. Autumn has always been my favourite season, but I realise now my previous experience of it has been somewhat impoverished. The trees and shrubs here put on a much better show – deep reds, earthy maroons, bright oranges, startling yellows. I don’t say this lightly. I grew up in the Chilterns, so I thought I knew a thing or two about autumn beauty. The beech woods can be stunning, majestic, exhilarating. But here, the season lasts so much longer, the variety is greater, the display more dramatic, and the weather still summery enough to allow full enjoyment of it.
This afternoon, for example, the Nature Park looked like this (you'll have to click to enlarge to do the colours justice):
There are always turtles to be seen, paddling along lugubriously or sunning themselves on logs, and a few weeks ago I spotted a muskrat in the water. There are elegant herons, and rather overfed ducks, who swim past hunks of bread floating in the water without even a second glance (this is a Nature Park on the edge of a big city, after all, not the wilderness). Dragonflies and damselflies dart in front of us. Crickets sun themselves on the paths, so old and slow this late in the season that we have to be careful not to tread on them before they leap away. Imagine being able to get close enough to take a photo like this (um... you'll definitely need to click to enlarge that one!).
Large spiders sit in the middle of their enormous webs, and 7-yo, who has been learning about them in science, tells us about their habits, and identifies the different kinds of web.
These are hedge apples, which are such a luminous, almost neon, green that we first told the kids that they were alien brains, fallen out of the sky, (but don’t worry, we only kept that story going for a few minutes – we didn’t want nightmares disturbing their and our sleep). They are solid and large (to give you the scale, this one is pictured in four year old hands), and they make a satisfying splash when lobbed into the creek. I love this place. For me, it offers the perfect blend of familiarity and novelty. I know my way round the color-coded trails, enough at least to navigate back to the car park by the shortest route if legs are tired, or to promise that we’ll be crossing another creek if hedge apples are being collected. The wildlife and flora still seem exotic to me, though. “Get me” I think to myself, “watching snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”, and I tuck the thought away so that in years to come I can say “In America, we used to watch snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”. Even the complaining which precedes the trip has developed a comforting feeling of family ritual about it (they complain, but we know from experience that they'll have a good time). It was thus when we lived in Scotland (“why do we ALWAYS have to go to the beach or Tentsmiur?”) and I remember it from the week-ends of my own childhood too. But I couldn’t identify a zipper spider (also known as a writing spider) in those days.
I am very cautious about posting photos on the web, and I guard my family’s anonymity carefully, but I thought this one of our shadows on the water was safe enough.
And, getting brave now, I didn’t think back views could hurt. Here are 7-yo, 11-yo and Husband.
And here is 4-yo.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Home again, home again, jiggety jig
We are back. We had a golden summer. Cousins played happily with cousins. I had my fix of old friends. We went to lovely beaches, the North York Moors, enjoyed old haunts, discovered new ones. Walked down streets – such a different thing from going to the mall. Walked along leafy country lanes that I have known since I was pushed along them in a big Silver Cross pram, kicking my younger brother for leg space. Went to the christening of my blogson. Husband and 11-yo had a day at Lord’s. Realised we’d been away too long when I said “there’s the pub”, and 4-yo piped up from the back of the car “what’s a pub?”
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
Friday, May 2, 2008
"Home" thoughts from abroad
In two weeks, we will be on English soil. Retrospectively, I’ll be able to call it a fortnight (did you know that Americans don’t use that word?). I’m excited and looking forward to it, and I know it will be a wonderful time, all 12 weeks of it, but I have to confess to being a little nervous too.
There will be so many good things. Seeing family and friends, time as a family together on holiday, enjoying the beauty of the gentle English countryside (I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to have it on your doorsteps), seeing the sea. Oh goodness me, so much! It’s a vacation, and I want it to be that, but I can’t avoid the fact that it will also be a trip to the old country. I don’t want to use the word “home”. I’ve spent a year and a half carefully and consistently referring to here as “home”. So when I tell people we’re going to Britain for the summer, and they reply “oh how neat, you’re going back home”, I don’t let them spoil my record. I counter with “yes, we’re going to Britain”. I shouldn’t think they notice, but I have my own personal pc rules.
I don’t need to go to Britain any more. Last summer, I desperately needed to, wanted to, ached to, which in itself was probably a reason against. No, now I fear I almost need NOT to go. I might like it too much. The hermetic seal around my life here, a separate chapter, an interesting interlude, but not real life somehow, will be broken. I’ve invested of myself here heavily and genuinely. I haven’t pretended (well, sometimes a little). But I know deep down that I am like one of those old-fashioned toy clowns that children used to have, round at the bottom and weighted, so that they always bob back upright with a jingle when released by the chubby hands which bat them and hold them down at an angle. I do my best, but I can’t change my centre of gravity.
None of this is new, though, and none of it is rocket science, (or some touchy-feely equivalent of that – I don’t think rocket scientists would be all that hot on emotional analysis, actually). None of you will say “oh my goodness, Iota is going to Britain, and she’s feeling it’s a bit complicated, who’d have thought THAT?” You know me too well. And I don’t mind complicated, really. Not for myself. I do mind it for my children though.
I mind it for 10-yo, who loves it here, has grown into a life which he can’t bear to think of moving away from, and for whom the question “how long will we stay in America?” is threatening and best avoided. I know friends will ask, and I know if he's in earshot I will fashion the answer more for him than for them, pass it off lightly, and not look in the direction of his face as I do so.
I mind it for 7-yo, who is fiercely proud of his Scottish birthright, and occasionally comes home from school with an A4 wax-crayonned Saltire: “we had some spare time in Art, and she said we could draw whatever we wanted”. I mind that the place which retains a hold on him might live up to his expectations, and make it hard to leave. I mind that it might disappoint, and that afternoons with friends of 18 months ago will not be what he imagines.
I mind it for 4-yo, who thinks she remembers Scotland and her little friends, but probably remembers the stories we have told her, the memories we have created for her. I mind that she will adore the beach, and though the coast of Fife even in summer won’t be quite the same as her mental picture of a beach (California), she will flit about in her wellies and warm fleece (I think you can flit in wellies…), enjoying again the freedom and space and openness that I and she used to delight in, and now so lack in our impoverished hemmed-in suburbia.
I mind for us as a family, that we don’t share the same place in our minds when we root around for where we think of as "home" (oh, that word again). I mind for the family we have in Britian, who will have to say good-bye to us again, with a brave face.
Bother. I thought I meant it when I said I didn’t mind complicated.
There will be so many good things. Seeing family and friends, time as a family together on holiday, enjoying the beauty of the gentle English countryside (I hope you all appreciate how lucky you are to have it on your doorsteps), seeing the sea. Oh goodness me, so much! It’s a vacation, and I want it to be that, but I can’t avoid the fact that it will also be a trip to the old country. I don’t want to use the word “home”. I’ve spent a year and a half carefully and consistently referring to here as “home”. So when I tell people we’re going to Britain for the summer, and they reply “oh how neat, you’re going back home”, I don’t let them spoil my record. I counter with “yes, we’re going to Britain”. I shouldn’t think they notice, but I have my own personal pc rules.
I don’t need to go to Britain any more. Last summer, I desperately needed to, wanted to, ached to, which in itself was probably a reason against. No, now I fear I almost need NOT to go. I might like it too much. The hermetic seal around my life here, a separate chapter, an interesting interlude, but not real life somehow, will be broken. I’ve invested of myself here heavily and genuinely. I haven’t pretended (well, sometimes a little). But I know deep down that I am like one of those old-fashioned toy clowns that children used to have, round at the bottom and weighted, so that they always bob back upright with a jingle when released by the chubby hands which bat them and hold them down at an angle. I do my best, but I can’t change my centre of gravity.
None of this is new, though, and none of it is rocket science, (or some touchy-feely equivalent of that – I don’t think rocket scientists would be all that hot on emotional analysis, actually). None of you will say “oh my goodness, Iota is going to Britain, and she’s feeling it’s a bit complicated, who’d have thought THAT?” You know me too well. And I don’t mind complicated, really. Not for myself. I do mind it for my children though.
I mind it for 10-yo, who loves it here, has grown into a life which he can’t bear to think of moving away from, and for whom the question “how long will we stay in America?” is threatening and best avoided. I know friends will ask, and I know if he's in earshot I will fashion the answer more for him than for them, pass it off lightly, and not look in the direction of his face as I do so.
I mind it for 7-yo, who is fiercely proud of his Scottish birthright, and occasionally comes home from school with an A4 wax-crayonned Saltire: “we had some spare time in Art, and she said we could draw whatever we wanted”. I mind that the place which retains a hold on him might live up to his expectations, and make it hard to leave. I mind that it might disappoint, and that afternoons with friends of 18 months ago will not be what he imagines.
I mind it for 4-yo, who thinks she remembers Scotland and her little friends, but probably remembers the stories we have told her, the memories we have created for her. I mind that she will adore the beach, and though the coast of Fife even in summer won’t be quite the same as her mental picture of a beach (California), she will flit about in her wellies and warm fleece (I think you can flit in wellies…), enjoying again the freedom and space and openness that I and she used to delight in, and now so lack in our impoverished hemmed-in suburbia.
I mind for us as a family, that we don’t share the same place in our minds when we root around for where we think of as "home" (oh, that word again). I mind for the family we have in Britian, who will have to say good-bye to us again, with a brave face.
Bother. I thought I meant it when I said I didn’t mind complicated.
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