Our Puritan Ideals

Dear all, 

When England threw out their religious zealots, these people set off with nothing but scratchy clothes on their backs, sensible shoes on their feet and lots of crazy assed ideas in their heads (dancing = bad, setting fire to people we don’t understand = good).  They headed towards a new land full of hope and promise, but, instead, landed in Plymouth, Mass.

A quick aside: did I ever tell you about the time we, along with my high school friend, Colleen, took the kids to the Living Pilgrim Museum in Plymouth?  It was the most hot and humid day in the history of mankind.  The museum has volunteers who dress up in woolen clothes like Pilgrims and bale hay and tend fires like Pilgrims did.  You must address these volunteers as Pilgrims NOT as tour guides.  For example, you can’t ask the guy baling hay why the Pilgrims baled hay.  You must ask, “Excuse me Farmer John, I noticed that you are baling hay with your ‘fiancé’ who happens to be about 40 years younger than you, you perv, and I was wondering…” Only then will they answer you. 

The museum also had a volunteer who was an honest to God Wampanoag (or something like that) Indian who was dressed, in all his chiseled glory, in nothing but a loin cloth, walking around, bending over.  He told sad stories of how much it sucked to be persecuted by the pilgrims to a small gathering of children around his feet, all the while his leg was resting on a log about two feet off the ground. 

For some reason, mostly because we were already giddy from asking lots of Pilgrims questions, this struck Colleen and me as very funny.  Not the stories, of course, but whole scene in general. We started with stifled laughter and a bit of poking, but it wasn’t long before we needed to excuse ourselves altogether.  As we pushed each other to get away, to rid our minds of this searing image, I took one last look back and the Indian turned to me. I could see his face…a close up…and one single tear running down his cheek. Or maybe I am confusing my Native American memories.. 

Anyway, what was my point?

So these pilgrims brought their ideas to a new land and with time and starvation, they evolved into a harsher people: the Puritans, which in Latin means:  if it feels good, you’re going to Hell.   Sometimes we forget that our great country is based on many Puritan, ideals such as:  controlling urges: good, clean houses: good, idle hands: bad, too many vacation days: VERY bad. 

England, on the other hand, is not based on these ideals.  They threw out the religious lunatics, but kept the fun people like Shakespeare, Benny Hill and the members of the Rolling Stones.  Their country is based on the time-honored ideals of sex and alcohol (but usually not in that order).

We moved to England and didn’t think this shift in values would affect us, but the longer we are here, the more adjusting we have to do.   Our parenting has to incorporate the norms of the British culture but still must fit in with our Midwestern values.  It hasn’t been easy. 

Everyone knows raising teenagers is difficult. Maybe you’ve raised teenagers or maybe you simply recall those complicated teenage years; years spent trying to ‘find’ yourself (you were probably towards the back of a dimly lit Denny’s parking lot) and longing for ‘truth’ (‘truth’ being so elusive at that age because your every move required an intricate web of lies so your parents didn’t know you were spending hours at a time towards the back of a dimly lit Denny’s parking lot).  

The legal age for drinking in the UK is 18 (about the time you get a drivers license) and alcohol is served to kids much younger than that in homes and in restaurants if the parents are present.  It isn’t irresponsible, it’s just is the way it is.  European.  And further to that, sex just isn’t the taboo it is in the US. 

For example, when M and S were 13, they were invited to a party of a girl who was still 12.  The parents were serving alcohol and the kids were invited to spend the night for a co-ed sleep over (a completely benign weekend activity here for every teenager…except ours). When I called the mother who was by all accounts lucid, (and bright, they just sent their oldest daughter off to Oxford), she was completely confused as to my concern.  Her response?  ‘Would you prefer if we serve LIGHT beer and wine, only?’ 

So when M and S were preparing to visit a friend in France for the week, I realized we had to have another serious dialog regarding alcohol and sex.  Additionally, I pulled M aside for a REAL heart to heart.  It went like this:

Me:  M, I don’t want you to have sex with Shawn while you’re in France.

M:  JEEZ, Mom, why do you think I’d do that?

Me:  Because she is a prettier version of Kirsten Dunst only with bigger boobs.  You’re 15.  Things happen.

M:  (Big grin comes over his face) Oh.  Yeah.

Me:  I mean it M.  I worry.

M:  God, Mom, will you PLEASE stop talking? 

And with that request, we let M and S travel to France completely on their own.   They had a wonderful time and there were no instances of any improprieties. 

At least that is what they are telling us.  We may find differently in a few years. 

With love from England, 

T-Ann

Wafer Thin Mint?

Dear all,

Monday, I spent the day with A in Cheltenham General Hospital.   You know me, always up for the sight of row and rows of beds and cracking/peeling paint in a hospital.  Although we have private health insurance, in an emergency you must go to NHS hospitals.  So, with A suffering acute pain, we headed to the hospital.  He had pneumonia.  

A had been sick on and off for the better part of a month.  He has lost weight and is looking even paler than his normal pasty self.  Poor guy, but when it came time to collect M and S from the airport after a trip to France, he was healthy enough to come along.

We waited at a Costa Coffee for their flight to arrive.  The Nicer of the Two Parents indulged A in a massive hot chocolate.  A gulped it down along with whipped cream AND marshmallows.  We were thrilled to have M and S back with us and we went out to dinner to celebrate their safe return and hear about their adventures in France.

Before dinner, The Nicer of the Two Parents ordered Aidan a fizzy fruit drink.  A slurped it down.  When dinnertime rolled around, A, who was seated next to aforementioned, Nicer of the Two Parents (and who wouldn’t want to be?), ordered himself a lemonade (7-Up). 

His sick tummy revolted. Three sips into that 7-Up and Aidan exploded like a scene out of Monty Python.

I’ll spare you the details, because, to be honest, words cannot do justice to this grand display of hot chocolate, purple juice, 7-Up and curly fries.  All the same, I will say that the restaurant became a temporary war zone with us grabbing chairs to use as shields as we ran for cover.

When Round One ended and A paused momentarily to reload, we got him out from behind the table and told him to run for the bathroom.  Desperate, he took off.  We were nearly there, actually just OUTSIDE THE BATHROOM, when an old lady cut us off, walking very slowly (freaking, Mr. Bean nightmare).  She turned and gave us a smug look, quite satisfied that she had prevented an impolite boy from running through a restaurant.  Imagine my pleasure, my pure joy and deep gladness something akin to a religious experience, when A blew for a SECOND time…this time right down the old cow’s backside.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Snow Days

Dear all,

Of all the many things I will miss when we eventually move back to the USA, there is no doubt I will miss the English winters.  The temps are relatively mild; I continue to walk everywhere.  The absence of forced air heat means my skin is not dried and itchy all season, my fingers don’t crack, and because there is moisture in the air, my hair remains compliant with the laws of gravity. 

Having said that, I understand that our winter weather has made the news back home.  The snow here has been laughable and, honestly, a little exhausting.  The United Kingdom cannot cope.  Here are a few examples of what life has been like this past week:

Last Tuesday, London came to a stand still, all buses and the Underground stopped.  They had about eight inches.  In Cheltenham, though, we got about two or three inches and most people did not show up for school or work.  It melted the following day.

Thursday and Friday, when we got four inches of snow, Jim could not go to work.  The motorway was impassable both Thursday and Friday.  More than half the children did not show up for school.  Our lucky kids walked to school.

Our postman could not deliver mail (his bike couldn’t make it in the snow).  The grocery store shelves were bare.  Friday, Jim and I took advantage of the additional day off and trudged to our favorite café.  The vegetables couldn’t be delivered.  Neither could the wine (it’s February…the detox is over).  

Saturday morning (the children go to school on Saturdays), I kept the children home until the mid morning thaw because it was too dangerous to walk on the sidewalks.  Drivers, unable to control their cars, were sliding up onto the sidewalks.  Don’t forget, this is FOUR inches of snow!

Everyone it seems, even those rascals who would normally be committing knife crimes (very popular in the UK), was out playing in the snow.  I have never seen so many snowmen.  There were a few memorable ones, but my favorite was at a nearby pub.  There was a snowman, quite lifelike, sitting on a chair, arm resting on a café table, with his hand around a full Guinness.  At the senior school, there was a fabulous polar bear made of snow. 

Sadly, irreverent prep school miscreants (their mothers should be ashamed) had to ruin the festive nature of the snow by building an enormous replica of, umm…Wedding Tackle.  Meat and Two Veg.  You know…male bits.  They were smart enough to erect (so to speak) this towering Man Garden away from the school buildings, further down the cricket and rugby pitches (supervising children is not one of the British prep school’s strong points).  The Willy went without notice for a satisfying amount of time (a day!), in full view of passing cars, until the administration from Cheltenham General Hospital, which is directly across the street, called Cheltenham College’s administration to notify them of the misconduct.   Also to tell them that the hospital’s patients were beginning to complain.  

As you can imagine, there was a surge of school pride.  The prank will live in boarding school infamy.

Sunday, a classmate of A’s went sledding (or sledging, as they say here) with her father.  They collided with another sled (sledge) and the father broke his back in TWO places.

To say that the British cannot handle snow is an understatement.

A week later, the snowmen look like ET’s Mini-Me, the snowdrops are blooming once again and the daffodils are pushing up.  People have already begun planting pansies in window boxes and there is daylight at 6:00 pm.  We may not get a warm summer, but in February when the flowers are promising to bloom, I never seem to mind.

With love from England, 

T-Ann

It's Official

Dear all, 

We are here until the summer of 2012. 

Overall, we have handled this news well, especially those of us (M and A) who never wanted to leave.   The rest of us, who are severely lacking in sun exposure, are trying to warm to the idea. 

In this economic climate, we are grateful for J’s job and are well aware that we live in one of the most beautiful parts of the world.  We live in a Kingdom, for God’s sake!  It’s the stuff of fairy tales.  Sort of.  Except the bit about the rain, the damp cold, the lack of summers, the drafty house, the cost of living, the lack of family and old friends, having to remember that the word ‘pants’ means ‘underpants’ and the fact that the British eat faggots and spotted dick (although not at the same time-spotted dick is for pudding). 

Additionally, it is a country that has offensive names for towns such as Penistone and Crapstone.  Or worse yet, roads called Butt Hole Road (honestly), Crotch Crescent (my favorite) and Slutshole Lane (?).  On the London Underground, I smile a sophomoric grin when the recorded voice announces ‘NOW APPROACHING SHEPHERD’S BUSH’.  ‘Yuck,’ I always think to myself, ‘is THAT what I smell?’

Right.  Scratch that.  Those are actually examples of why I LOVE this quirky country.    

I must admit that M’s recent mumble about returning to the US for college made my heart swing.  Two additional years in England, I worry, will make the twins more settled (they will finish their secondary education here) and want to go to university here. University leads to jobs or marriages (or both) in England.  That means we are possibly left with only R and A in the USA to care for us in our old age.  R is unlikely to be a decent carer (unless we make it extremely easy and very lucrative) and A, by his own admission, wishes he had a different mom, one who didn’t say ‘no’ all the time, so, as a companion in our old age, he isn’t looking too promising, either. 

I am easing myself back into English life from which I had started to detach.  I have stopped looking at the pictures of our new house back home on a daily (hourly) basis.  I, like everyone else in Cheltenham, am simply biding my time doing laundry and talking about the weather until Champagne Season begins (even now I glance at my watch, wondering how much longer I have to wait).   

In the mean time, I might indulge myself by putting on some Bob Seger (Roll Me Away is one of the all time best lets–get-the-Hell-out-of-here songs) and daydreaming about my homeland.

With love from England,

T-Ann