Jeremy

Dear all, 

Living with feet planted securely in two countries is nothing if not life affirming.  We have good friends in both countries and we do not take this blessing for granted.

Last summer J and I left the kids with a sitter and escaped to the seaside.  We joined three other couples in Woolacombe, North Devon, to celebrate the birthday of a friend.  It was a spectacular few days filled with sand and sun British style. 

During WW2, Woolacombe was the English army’s base during the training for D-Day.  The cliffs surrounding the beach look amazingly like those in Normandy, France.  We had a post card perfect beach hut, white with a brightly painted door, where we gathered during the day and laughed until our faces hurt and we were properly sunburned.

In the evenings, against a glorious backdrop of the setting sun over the sparkling sea, we got together to celebrate not only the birthday, but also the warm weather.   One night, at 2:00 a.m. after quite possibly too much fun, J and I dragged ourselves up the impossibly steep hill, legs burning, to our Bed and Breakfast only to discover we were locked out.

There we stood, making lots of noise, ringing the doorbell, wondering what to do.  Like a couple of dim-witted criminals, we planned a break in. 

We were not dressed appropriately for criminal activity.

I hiked up my dress for serious range of motion. While balancing in the manner of Dr. Seuss atop two stacked outdoor stools, on the edge of a deep hill, J tried hoisting me into the air towards our open window.  Well, that was the plan, anyway.  As you might imagine, this wasn’t easy and, what with the alcohol, laughter and more than a few lewd comments from J, my cat-like reflexes were not as sharp as usual. 

It took a few tries for me to grab the windowsill with my hands.  I then swung my legs up and secured my toes.  J was a rock of encouragement during this critical phase of the break in.  He gently reminded me of what a nimble athlete I am and poked me in a generally cheering way every chance he could.  I hung there momentarily with all the grace and dignity of an underage Chinese gymnast until at last I pulled my knee onto the sill.  I then heaved up the remaining, unaccountably heavy pieces of myself.  All this smoothness of movement achieved with my dress somewhere around my neck.  Finally, after I was successfully squatting on the sill taking a well-deserved deep breath, there came one last unexpected push on my rear end.  I fell into the room with an embarrassingly loud thump (note to self:  definitely lose weight). 

The eight of us had such a great a time; we planned to go back for our summer holiday ’09.

The phone call came two weeks ago, while I was visiting in the US.  I stood in shock. I couldn’t breathe.

Jeremy and another man, two friends with whom we shared such lively times in Woolacombe last summer, were motorcycling through France when Jeremy was hit by a car and killed instantly, leaving behind the most beautiful wife and three lovely teenage children.

Jeremy was a mischievous, larger than life man who possessed an infectious love of life. He adored his family and enjoyed his friends.  He was always up for a laugh and as J can attest, as they are in the same business, humor was always present even in business emails.

Jeremy is the second friend in England we have lost in as many years.  Both deaths occurred while we were visiting in the US.  I felt helpless in the US and yet when tragedy strikes back home, which it has, I feel equally as powerless in England.

The day we were asked to move to England, I could not have guessed that we would have made such good friends here.   I don’t think I imagined it would gut me to miss weddings, Christenings and funerals in England just as I have missed them back home over the past two and a half years, but it will.

I am, however, grateful for whatever time I have on this earth.  Time to experience both the sorrow and joys, pain and happiness along side the good friends and family that we have on both sides of The Pond.  

It is just that some days, I wish England wasn't quite so far from home. 

With love from England,

T-Ann  

Air Space

Dear all,

Here I am at 3800 feet.  I’ve entered US airspace, which thrills me.

I am looking forward to US immigration.  After the immigration officer reviews your passport suspiciously and grills you as to why you would like to enter the US, he hands you your passport, looks you in the eye and says, “Welcome home.”  

Every expat here agrees it is the sweetest of moments.  Makes me well up every time. 

Then you pass through the gates and into the land of freedom, liberty and medium rare burgers.  Some days I wonder how we could ever have left.  It is just such so good to be home.

With love from England,

T-Ann   

Flash

Dear all,

Seems hard to believe that my friend Elizabeth, or The Queen as we like to think of her, is back at home after a ten-day visit.  It was a very quick ten days.  We hit every boutique and tearoom I could find.  Little to no time was devoted to educational excursions, but that is why one is always welcome to read a history book.  We weren’t about to waste our time in educational pursuits when there were scones to be devoured and winding roads to explore.

I enjoyed every minute of her trip.  I think she did, too, although it was almost friendship over at a car boot sale.  Elizabeth and I have scoured flea markets and thrift stores together for years with the steadfast rule that whoever first spies the bargain has ‘dibs’.  Still, when I beat her to an ancient and exquisitely patched kilim rug  (Fabulous by the way-got it for a song), I thought she might hurt me in a very dramatic and Shakespearian way. 

In the end, she thanked me for allowing her to spend time in our movie like life and I thanked her for walking our dog.

She returned safely to the controlled or not so controlled chaos that is family life.  An award and big kiss goes to her husband, Flash (his actual summer camp nick name), who, along with the reluctant assistance of one scowling teenager, managed to clean both the garage and the basement in her absence.   

He also kept two barfing-on-the-carpet younger boys and an acutely old dog alive in her absence.  All this with only one panicked call to England.

Really, his only fault was sleeping through the boys’ Religious Ed. classes, which is a real shame because Sister Surly at Our Lady of Hopeless Progression has now doomed them to Hell.  

Who needs a vacation now, Flash?

With love from England,

T-Ann