T Time in England

Squinting

2009-03-14T10:37:00.011Z

Dear all,

R is back in the spotlight again and it’s not a very flattering light. He has taken his mock common entrance exams (his mock senior school entrance exams). We had some differences of opinions while he prepared for these exams, namely WE thought he should have his nose in a book and HE thought he should walk around with a book, singing Led Zeppelin songs. Finally, we agreed that we’d let him do it his way and see how it all worked out. Or not.

The one thing you can say about R is this: he is NOT your average student. There is nothing average about him at all. He is either above or below (in direct correlation to how much he likes his teacher), but he is certainly not average.

It was a little tricky congratulating him for his magnificent triumphs when he needed a kick in the pants for his, well, below average work.

One night J and I lay awake wondering what to do with R. I was feeling desperate and was running out of ideas to motivate R. J reminded me that two years ago M was a huge worry. It seems like ages ago, but yes, I worried day in and day out about M for years. Maybe it is R’s turn or maybe it is his age or maybe in time, kids will all turn out just fine no matter what…

When the kids were toddlers and even into grade school, I’d find that at night, when the room was dark, I could squint my eyes, stare at them sleeping in their beds and see them as babies. I could remember their soft breath and how they felt in my arms. There they were, these big kids, but with a little darkness and just a bit of squinting, those babies were right there. I still stare at A as he sleeps.

Those small, pudgy babies of mine disappeared and now I step over piles of muddy grown up shoes by the front door. I feel robbed of precious moments.

When the kids were small (and still with A), exhausted, we’d practically limp upstairs to put them to bed. We read the same favorite books over and over until I thought my mind would turn to soup. I figure somewhere around fourteen years of reading Cars! Cars! Cars! can do damage to your brain.

Time is smooth and seamless. Each day spent with our young family was noisy and chaotic, however change came about silently: babies became toddlers and toddlers became kids. Preferences evolved. How could I have known the significance as I placed The Runaway Bunny back onto the shelf that one particular night, that I would never be asked to read it again? Well over a decade of reading this tattered book and I placed it along side the other books on the shelf without thought or notice, without ceremony. I wasn’t aware at the time, but this simple act of putting away a book was profound: an end of an era. In that small and seemingly insignificant motion, part of their childhood, and my mothering, was over.

I had an epiphany recently, just days after I worried so much about R. M and S were in the kitchen talking, laughing and helping out. I watched them in a way that I hadn’t before. I stood back and really had a good look at them, like they were some sort of experiment and I was a scientist extracting data. I noticed how they interacted. I listened to their voices and to the intelligent and funny conversation they were sharing. And then I did it: I squinted.

In that moment I discovered something even MORE magical and MORE joyful than seeing babies in big kids. Squinting in the full light of day, right there in our kitchen, I saw an amazing sight: our twins were nearly adults. It didn’t take much to see that they are almost there.

As I processed this in my mind, it surprised me just how much, through watery eyes, I liked what I saw.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Somerfield

2009-03-12T13:56:00.003Z

Dear all,

When J and I flew to England to find a house and school, our relocation agent took us down Bath Road in Cheltenham. He suggested that we try to find a home close to this shopping district, because we would be spending a lot of time there. It is THE place to shop for everyday essentials: a chippy (fish and chip joint), 2 chemists, 2 butchers, 2 grocery shops, 3 Indian restaurants, the post office, a kitchen store, a green grocer, a deli, a bakery, an office/art supply shop, an old fashion shoe store and a repair shop like on Sesame Street except I’m pretty Luis wasn’t laundering money like these owners are.

The sidewalks were crowded with merchandise for sale, parked bikes, shoppers, window washers and postmen. I couldn’t imagine myself there. Essential shopping? Really? There was no Target, Old Navy or Barnes and Noble. There wasn’t a single drive through or bagel shop. Not a Mattress Giant or Korean nail spa. No Petsmart. No Starbucks. No TGI Fridays. No seagulls hovering above an urban sea of blacktop and minivans.

We found a house just a couple blocks from this shopping Mecca. I shop on the Bath Road nearly every day.

My first venture to Somerfield, a grocery store, left me digging around my bag for hand sanitizer. It was dirty. The floors were grimy, the shelves crusty, the choice paltry. The bucked toothed, greasy haired carnies that manned the tills didn’t look at all like the nice moms who worked at Target. I suspected I wouldn’t last long in this country.

It didn’t take long, though, before I got used to the sticky floors and the awe-inspiring lack of service. I kind of like that I can shop in a place five or six days a week, year after year and never be offered so much as a knowing glance.

Shopping there is like snooping through the grade school janitor’s closet: Standing at the altar of organized filth, with its dirty contents neatly organized on shelves, is exhilarating. Exchanging nervous glances with the tattooed bad ass in charge, electrifying.

I feel a kinship to Somerfield’s patrons: we are a slightly anti-social people and we are lazy. We shop at Somerfield simply because it is a block closer than the other cleaner grocery store. We’re a pretty pathetic lot.

When an enormous hairy spider climbed out from behind some bananas, Somerfield emptied; its patrons fled, all screaming and arms flailing onto Bath Road. They stopped traffic and the event made the front page of our local paper. It made me delight in this grotty place all the more.

I see a faint look of concern pass over our visitors’ faces when they enter our little shop. I see their lips curl ever so slightly, a combination of wonder, disgust and pity. They ask if Somerfield is a convenience store. ‘Nope. It’s Somerfield. It’s where I shop’, I say proudly, ‘And where YOUR next meal is coming from.’

And now it is closing.

What a drag. I will now have to shop at the Co-op, which is brighter and fresher and has a better selection. The cashiers at the Co-op are lovely people and they do not possess any of the freak show qualities I find charming. For instance, the Co-op cashiers bathe and the women are clean-shaven with a low rate of tattoage. Plus, they are downright pleasant which I find terribly grating, but in time, I’ll get used to that, too, I suppose.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road Part 2

2009-03-07T15:41:00.005Z

Dear all,

In my second and final installment on driving, I would like to delve further into the joys and sorrows of driving on the wrong side of the road. I have been living in England for so long now, that I get confused when I go home and drive in the US. Pretty much, in either country, I just like to follow the car in front of me and hope it knows where it’s going.

In England, despite the strict testing and training of drivers, the rules of the road, are really more like guidelines. One glaring example is that the Brits drive into oncoming traffic. A lot.

The main reason for driving into oncoming traffic is to snag a parking place before anyone else takes it, which seems perfectly legitimate to me. Parking is at a premium and no one is going to let a little thing like the threat of a serious accident, prevent them from getting a parking space. Cars are parked in every which way, including on the sidewalk or perpendicular if it’s convenient. Looking at the direction of parked cars on a road offers no indication as to the flow of traffic.

The children’s orthodontist is on a congested road. The preferred method of parking in that part of town is for one car to park on the sidewalk, another car parallel to it on the street. If the car on the sidewalk needs to leave before the car on the street, the driver simply proceeds down the sidewalk until he reaches a lane from which he may emerge onto the street. So what if cars are driving on sidewalks directly across from a grade school? Those little kids just need to keep a heads up.

The other legitimate reason for driving into oncoming traffic is if, say, you want to drop groceries off in front of your home (houses don’t come with garages conveniently attached), but you happen to be driving on the opposite side of the road. Or you see a friend across the way with whom you’d like to chit-chat. There is no need to go around the block and pull up in front of the house or person. You simply pull into oncoming traffic and park (as a courtesy to other drivers, but not to pedestrians, you pull onto the sidewalk, forcing moms with young children or the elderly to walk into the street to get around you).

You can’t just fly down the street in the manner of a drunk driver. There is a subtle art it. In order to NOT to frighten oncoming traffic, you mustn’t jerk the car over quickly or swerve. Instead, you must drive confidently into oncoming traffic for quite a distance before pulling slightly to the right and jumping the curb. Driving half on the sidewalk and half on the road into oncoming traffic is the universal signal that says: I-mean-you-no-harm-I-simply-want-to-catch-up-with-an-old-friend-or-drop-off-my-potted-plants-thank-you-very-much. Often this snarls traffic, but no one minds or shouts obscenities. Very civilized.

Maybe the Brits are higher up Maslov’s hierarchy of needs than we are?

We live on a fairly busy road. There are pedestrians of all sorts: elderly people with elderly dogs, university students, and children on their way to school. Consider that there are bicyclists, double-decker busses, cars and that vicious old lady in her electric wheelchair all sharing the road, swerving around illegally parked cars and quinces that R tosses into the street. No one cares that you are driving straight at ‘em. Ever. It is amazing.

Last October when I was back in the US, I was at an unfamiliar and unusual intersection. I could go straight or turn left, soft right, or hard right. I wanted to make a ‘soft’ right hand turn. I was the first car in my turn lane, so I couldn’t simply follow the car in front of me. While waiting at the light, I took a moment to access the situation and verify exactly which lane I needed to turn into. The light turned green and I drove, without hesitation, into a turning lane of oncoming traffic.

If ever you are feeling like your life holds no thrills, I urge you to drive into oncoming traffic at a busy intersection in the US. One moment I was tearing up to a John Denver song playing on satellite radio in the rental car and the next moment I was witnessing looks of horror on the faces of all the drivers I passed. Their attempts to communicate my error were both animated and surprisingly easy to decipher.

In one beat of my heart, I became very aware of every hair follicle on my head and neck and every sweat gland in my body. I was alive! I was awake! I was in need of fresh undergarments!

By the grace of God there were no cars heading towards me and I was eventually able to swing into the proper lane. Because there was so much traffic in the opposite direction, this took what seemed like miles. I pulled over, parked the car and shook for about a half an hour. And sometimes people wonder why coming home for visits can be stressful…

I’d just like to say that as frenetic as driving in England is, it suits me just fine. Sure it is startling to see people reversing down a street at 30 mph, but they are only doing that as a courtesy to allow another driver to get through a blocked road. You see, what inevitably happened is that Mrs. Smith was out clipping her roses when the vicar drove by and he stopped to congratulate Mrs. Smith on her daughter’s recent engagement. As it does, a five-minute discussion ensued (date, dress, flowers, etc) and other drivers were forced to reverse or drive onto sidewalks to pass. No road rage. Everyone knows one day THEY’LL be the one who wants to talk with the vicar while he is passing down the street. In this country you just need to leave plenty of time. And if you don’t and you are late for an appointment, that’s fine, too.

Lastly, I’d like to point out the one thing the UK does take very seriously is speeding. England has, last I counted, 5 trillion speed cameras. They are everywhere, all knowing and without any sense of compassion. Twice I have gotten a speeding ticket, once going a WHOPPING 4 mph over. Between fines and points on your license, you pay dearly. Ask J. J, is one ticket away from losing his license altogether because he has been caught by speed cameras so many times (please refer to my previous entry for further details on how I encourage him to slow down).

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Wrong Side of the Road, Part 1

2009-03-04T11:04:00.002Z

Dear all,

The next few installments of T Time, will be dedicated to driving on the wrong side of the road, something I do frequently when I return to the US.

In the UK, you are able to get your license around your 18^th birthday. As foreigners, we were allowed to legally drive on our US licenses for up to one year, so, of course, J and I drove for over TWO years before finally getting motivated to get our UK licenses. All of our British friends offered encouragement and even J’s work friends joined in the fun. He was offered ‘an incentive program’ whereby Human Resources took away the keys to his company car until he could produce a valid UK license. We love the Human Resources Department. They are always thinking up kooky things to keep us on our toes: taking away car keys one week and forgetting to transfer J’s paycheck the next. What jokesters.

Like so many other worthwhile and wonderful things, procurement of a UK license takes time. A UK license is for life so they do not mess around when it comes to testing. You are required to take the written Theory Test first, and then a couple months later, you take a driving test. The written test is more difficult than you might imagine because, for one, speed limits are often not posted; you need to learn what the national speed limit is on every type of road. Also, all the distances are in metric, which I have never bothered to learn. But above all, the exam is tough because the employees at the Driving Standards Agency are just barking mad.

Here are some sample questions:

You are checking your trailer tyres. What is the legal minimum tread depth over the central three quarters of its breadth?

Where may you overtake on a one-way street?

You are signaling to turn right in busy traffic. How would you confirm your intention safely?

Where would you see a contra-flow bus and cycle lane?

At puffin crossings, which light will not show to a driver?

How long will a Statutory Off Road Notification (SCORN) last for? (bad grammar, by the way)

There are no speed limit signs on the road. How is a 30 mph limit indicated?

Powered vehicles, such as wheelchairs or scooters, used by disabled people have a maximum speed of?

Which three emergency services MIGHT have blue flashing beacons?

You are waiting to emerge at a junction. Your view is restricted by parked vehicles. What can help you to see traffic on the road you are joining?

Just for the record, I got 100% on my Theory Test. J did not, but you can bet I was very mature about the whole thing. It isn’t about who got the better grade, it is just about being safe.

You study for your written exam and while doing so you must get drivers training. It isn’t enough that you have been driving for 25 or 30 years. You will not pass without help. You must hire a meek and mild man with thinning hair and loads of patience to re-teach you how to drive.

The cornerstone of the UK driving test is reversing down a road and into a side street. This is frowned upon in the US, but in the UK it is necessary to perform this maneuver nearly every time you get behind the wheel of a car, so it is a pretty important skill. You will be tested on parallel parking. If you so much as touch the curb, it is an automatic failure. It’s considered loss of control. You will be taken down several different roads and you must know the speed limit of each.

It is worth noting that I passed the driving test on my first try. For the sake of comparison ONLY, you may be interested to know that it took J THREE times. I think it’s important you focus on J’s eventual success, not on his NUMEROUS failures. As I said previously, it is all about safety, not about who is the better driver (me, obviously).

I continue to be a resource for J whenever we travel together. I’m like a walking, talking Theory Test Study Guide. When I note that his driving isn’t at the 100% marker or I sense he is feeling too shy to ask for my driving advice (which I encourage), I like to help him by pointing out ways he could improve his driving skills. Peppering him with facts from the theory books is very effective.

If that doesn’t correct an unsafe situation, I engage a three-pronged approach wherein I first take the Lord’s name in vain, then use a strong and offensive swear word (depending on the extremity of the situation and how much time I have to get my point across, I might choose to combine these first two steps). Lastly, I ask a very pointed, leading question in a cheerful, but firm voice. It goes something like this, “Jesus H. Christ! F**K! Would you slow down?!”

Often this technique works, though often enough we end up skidding off the road. This method has the added benefit of greatly increasing our marital communication, thus killing two birds with one stone. Lots of heartfelt and lively banter ensues. Everyone wins.

With love from England,

T-Ann

P.S. The answers to the questions above are:

1.6 mm
Either on the right hand or the left hand
Arm signal (as if…)
On a one way street
Amber flashing (assuming you know the difference between a zebra, puffin, pelican and staggered crossing)
12 months
Street lights
8 mph (which I know for a fact is WRONG, because there is an old lady in our neighborhood who cruises in her wheelchair, doing about 40 mph in the rain while smoking, talking on her mobile phone and shouting vulgarities at anyone in her way)
Coast guard, bomb disposal, mountain rescue
Reflections of traffic in shop windows

You'll Wish You Were Me...

2009-03-02T17:11:00.004Z

Dear all,

Why is it that some days life can be utter rubbish, others, a study in perfection? Today is one of those splendid days when not only is it warm and sunny, but I am caught up with my laundry. Perfection.

I was forced to do laundry around the clock this weekend because we were expecting a visit from our landlords who were invited by me to smell the bouquet of our latest home ‘glitch’. We are suffering from the vexing problem of a basement that smells as if it is well past its Best Before date, not unlike the contents of a container of fish pie that has gone missing in the fridge for a few months. I thought I’d extend an invitation to our landlords so they, too, could enjoy the pong (smell).

The laundry was done simply to give the impression that I am not a lazy sloth.

I am well aware that others could look at my life in England and think, gosh, I wish WE could get a sweet deal like they did and leave these Frozen Red and Blue States for someplace a bit more civilized: a place with less snow, less SUVs…less Oprah. Well, my friends, I am here to tell you life isn’t half bad on the other side of the pond when the sun shines and you have no laundry on the floor. You should definitely come.

I admit that part of the thrill at the moment, isn’t that the sun is shining, but has more to do with the fact that I have no laundry. ‘What a loser,’ you are thinking to yourself. Well, yes, of course, THAT is part of it, but mostly, I am just so happy I have an electrical dryer. You know, the kind of dryer that you can’t fold up and tuck behind the door when company comes or the kind that isn’t hung in the back yard and doesn’t subject your neighbors to the sight of your ‘smalls’. I mean a dryer with a plug. The kind with a big drum that you put wet clothes into, press a button and they come out dry. I mean the kind of dryer that dries your clothes even if you live in England and it rains 85% of the time.

My intention here is not to make you envious. It is just that I simply cannot begin to tell you how this machine has revolutionized my life. We no longer have laundry hanging all over the house on clotheshorses, in doorways and on the radiators. Kitchen chairs are used for sitting, not drying laundry. What it does to soften a towel cannot be described. Brilliant!

I had promised to keep my mouth closed about this luxury (which obviously I’m not) because more than one husband I know said he’d really catch it if his wife found out J had indulged me in such a luxury, but I can’t help it. This dryer makes my heart sing. I may have a fridge the size of a shoe rack, but, by God, I have an electric dryer. I may start to write poetry…

We got the dryer months ago after discovering that there are dryers that do not need outside ventilation. You just have to empty a water container, similar to a dehumidifier. We got an electrician to pull power into one of our two closets and, bang, just like that, I had a dryer installed. Like my washing machine, it can only handle 5 shirts at a time, but I don’t mind. I treat it like a child: filling it well beyond its capacity and pushing it far beyond its limits. It likes that.

I’ve thought a lot about it and I’m pretty sure this dryer is the best thing that has ever happened to me. If you don’t have one, you should really think about getting one. Maybe for Christmas. Certainly all the really cool people have them. I hear that some people actually have a washer and a dryer IN THE SAME ROOM, but for sure, that’s an urban myth.

To celebrate this moment, the simultaneous event of both sun and no laundry, I think I’ll go shoe shopping. Or read a book, if you are J and you are reading this.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Our Puritan Ideals

2009-02-24T11:36:00.002Z

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?

2009-02-22T12:31:00.003Z

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

2009-02-12T09:57:00.000Z

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

2009-02-06T16:35:00.002Z

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

Cue The Clash

2009-01-25T20:24:00.003Z

Dear all,

The last few months have been a bit tumultuous. We sold our house in the fall. Walking out the door for the last time was emotional despite the fact we’ve been away for nearly three years. Then, two days before Christmas, we closed on a house in Lake Forest, IL. It is closer to J’s work and is within walking distance to the train, shops and cafes, which was important to us after living in town for this long. We hope to rent the house until our return.

I love change and so with the purchase of our new home, I was able to throw myself into our move back. I was googling park district programs for A and collecting the phone numbers of handymen (bad 70’s shelving in the new family room has to go). I started to think about things I wanted to bring back from England. I fantasized about A celebrating the 4^th of July and seeing proper, over the top Christmas lights and decorations. And snow.

Alas, I may have to wait. J’s boss came to the UK. He is a lovely man and while we stood together talking, it became obvious (by way of Dave bellowing and choking, ‘Who said you were going home in a year?’) that J is still needed here, which we knew, but chose to ignore. Yes, we can go home, but will that be the best for J or our family? We moved here because J was spending too much time away from home, would we want to move home only to have J flying to England for weeks at a time? (Although maintaining a flat in London certainly sounds appealing…)

But then there are the children to consider. R wants the American lifestyle back immediately. He is desperate to return so he can, by all accounts, loiter outside 7/11’s with his homies, lay in the sunshine and avoid growing up. S has been seduced by Hollywood and now thinks high school is like High School Musical. She wants to return so as to experience the American high school ‘dream’. M wants to stay in England and complete senior school here (And who can blame him? He is doing so well after years of struggling with his learning disabilities). And A says he is happy to move home, but that he will NOT be going to school upon our return (not really worryin’ about HIS hang ups, though).

And me? I am happy here, but I do get homesick. I miss my parents (My dad had major surgery last October. My, mom, bless her, had to put to sleep our cat they inherited when we left.). I miss family and my friends. Some days I just wish I was sitting at my Aunt Marilyn’s kitchen table instead of negotiating sidewalks decorated with delicate starbursts of vomit (I seriously contemplate why Britain’s youth, almost without exception, eat carrots before binge drinking). And, for all our faults, Americans volunteer and give of ourselves freely. I miss our openness and lack of reserve and dedication to community.

And so I say to you, ‘Cue the Clash!’

The Clash’s punk rock song “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” is clanging in my head, although, in this instance, I think a more soulful, slightly mournful remake might prove to be very effective (think Judy Collins’ version of “Both Sides Now”). In your mind, add some rather self-indulgent shots of me, face heavy in contemplation, wearing a jaunty coat, perky hat and shiny black wellies walking my small British dog in the rain past stunning Regency architecture, answering emails in my very Jane Austen dining room with the sun, pouring through my two hundred year old, nine foot windows or of me dashing out to collect the children from their elitist schools. Such doleful images.

We will do whatever is best for the family and staying here until 2012 would get M and S through senior school and give R a chance to go to high school back home for two years. We are choosing between two blessed situations, we know that.

I do, however, feel for R in particular, who carries all the baggage that middle children often do. But, in the words of my father, a master of sensitivity, who understands R well (they share a birthday and birth order in families of similar make up: three boys and one girl), ‘Too, damn bad, he’ll be fine.’

I’ll keep you posted.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Hope Won

2009-01-21T10:09:00.004Z

Dear all,

This was the prayer which was said at the invocation of Bishop Gene Robinson. It was forwarded to me by our very hip Rev. Kate back home and was said yesterday at the senior school's morning chapel by the rocker Rev. Reynaud (S came home gushing about it). It is beautiful and and not at all offensive to my Republican friends and family, which I like because I am all about inclusion. And warm, understanding embraces.

Also, it is worth noting that I cut and pasted this All. By. Myself. No help from my eye rolling children who repeatedly claim I am not worthy of a sleek laptop. It is the dawning of a new year...

With love from England,

T-Ann

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O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…

Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic “answers” we’ve preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be “fixed” anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.

Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion’s God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln’s reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy’s ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King’s dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters’ childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we’re asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.

AMEN.

Detox is the New Black

2009-01-16T14:25:00.005Z

Dear all,

It is the time of year in England when we all, like lemmings, run to health food stores in order to buy tinctures, drops and supplements all in the hopes of detoxing.

This year, in order to rid my body of unwanted toxins, I have given up wheat and dairy (except for butter, obviously). I will not even have the occasional glass of wine until February. Unless it seems appropriate. Or it might appear rude if I refuse.

In return for a little discomfort (i.e.: not eating sleeves of Hob Nob cookies with my tea everyday), I will have a healthy body that will provide me energy and vitality in the coming year. I will possess clarity of thought. I will be more motivated. I will be thin and muscular. I will become at least 5’7’’, my graying hair will give way to a cascade of golden curls and wrinkles will fade. The best part? J will start to look like Daniel Craig.

To be fair, I am certain detoxing is useless, but it does seem to help the Brits prepare for Champagne Season, which opens in a few short months, generally around the third week of March. Detoxing is a step up from self-flagellation and seems to give a bit of purpose to the otherwise dull month of January.

I approached detoxing as I approach everything in life: I went slinking off to the health food store to ask what was the EASIEST way to get through it. I was sent away with a milk thistle tincture (which tastes almost as bad as the syrup, lemon juice and chili pepper concoction I drank last detox) and a package of detox patches.

These patches are like magic, so for sure they are a scam, but I don't care. At nighttime, you slap a patch on the bottom of each foot and go to bed. In the morning you peel them off. How do I describe something so vile? I know we’ve all dealt with some nasty things over the years, that many of you are parents or medically trained or that when you were younger you poked road kill with sticks, but trust me; you’ve never seen something so awful.

When you peel off these giant band-aid patches, you are left with a pad full of black tarry toxins that are now, by the grace of God, conveniently located OUTSIDE your body and are safely on their way to a bulging landfill where they clearly belong. Thankfully, they are no longer INSIDE your body making you short, a bit thick in the middle, tired, cranky and unable to devote quality time to anything but a Mamma Mia DVD.

Hope your new year is off to a warm and sunny start. Since that only applies to the three of you who live in Florida, I’ll rephrase. I hope your new year is one filled with love and peace and the courage to endure the American winter.

With love from England,

T-Ann

In the words of that poet, Neil Diamond, 'Hello Again, Hello'

2009-01-12T17:07:00.003Z

Dear all,

I am back from my extended break from writing.

Because I don’t particularly write about anything, I generally do not have a problem generating content for my blog entries. For weeks, however, I was cursed with my own freakish style of writer’s block. It came in the way of a tune that was stuck in my head.

Just as I was beginning to accept that writing as a profession might require a modicum of self-discipline (let’s face it, not one of my strong suits) the theme song from that 60’s show, Love American Style, got stuck in my head, nearly derailing a career that I have yet to start. It was paralyzing. Really.

Now think back. Surely, some of you must remember that song? If not, I urge you to google. It is seriously catchy. I couldn’t stop singing it, humming it and groovin’ to 60’s inspired dance moves in front of my computer (and down the street, if I’m honest). There was no way I could write.

Nothing would release me from this Hell. I even tried singing other theme songs like the one from The Mary Tyler Moore Show or another personal favorite, the theme to One Day At a Time which starred Valerie Bertinelli and Bonnie Franklin and some other girl who ended up ravaged by drugs due to bad genes and the success of this show (hardly worth it), if I remember correctly.

So anyway, our second half of November banged on with the usual turn of events: M not waking up in good time and not walking the dog, S stressing in a rather irritating, controlled and hormonal sort of way about exams, zits and impending braces, R not taking out the garbage and talking too much in school and A snapping, ‘NO!’ far more than any five year old should.

So that is our November sorted.

By the time December rolled around, time had healed my Love American Style dilemma, but then R accidentally super glued my laptop shut, which obviously made writing difficult. It might be best not to go into too much detail about that.

Early in the month, A snapped his collarbone on the playground at school. The moment I saw the antiquated playgrounds in this country (blacktop is such an effective way to break a fall), I knew there was going to be a broken bone. A’s accident gave me the push I needed to sit down with the new headmaster and give him an earful.

I felt my background in English and Early Childhood gave me the credibility I needed to bully the new headmaster. I demanded to know which theory or educational style or even which article in Oprah magazine the school was basing their really not-so-fun early childhood program upon.

At age five, Aidan is by far the last kid to read in his class. He goes to school from 8:15 until 3:30 and has spelling (words like chicken, tracksuit, shampoo and pavement) and reading homework each night. I have resisted homework for three years, but now he is beginning to think there is something wrong with him because he cannot read as well as his peers.

So, with the headmaster stammering, I go in for the kill. ‘Right,’ I quip. ‘You have no foundation for this type of education, do you? ‘ He admits that well, no indeed, they teach this way (with no teacher smiling or hugging the kids, no music in the room) because it is simply the way they have always done it.

We spent a well over an hour discussing the lame playground and the lame British early educational system. When I felt sufficiently smug, I ended the meeting.

I should know when I get smug, the paybacks are rich:

A went to school the very next day and, with his one working, non-dominant arm, he chopped into his own hair and cut the hair of another boy. They wanted to look like James Bond.

As my luck would have it, the mother of the A’s ‘client’ is one of the fussiest in school (she wakes up in the morning and decides if she should drive the Porsche SUV, the Bentley or the Ferrari and wouldn’t DREAM having a hair out of place or of cutting her boy’s golden curls).

So, this was a little ugly.

And A didn’t look so cute for the family portraits that followed two days later.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Our Middle Son

2008-11-18T20:38:00.007Z

Dear all,

With the end of October, we became the parents of another teenager. So vividly I remember the days of wishing the kids could walk and tie their shoes on their own, bring us cold drinks and help find the remote. Now we worry about decisions teenagers can make which have more dire outcomes than waiting too long to go to the loo.

R’s twelfth year was a bit ugly. He managed, in an unfailing yet somewhat admirable way, to consistently do the wrong thing. If there was a shoe to be lost, he lost it. If there was a fight to pick with an unsuspecting sibling, he did. If there was homework to do, he didn’t. If he thought his mother was imperfect, he chose all the wrong times to point it out (trust me).

I am happy to report that R has had a great couple of months. First of all, he performed Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth at a professional theater in Birmingham. What a fabulous night. Four schools each performed a shortened version of a Shakespeare play for an All Schools Shakespeare Festival. I was humbled thinking about the blessing of watching R perform Shakespeare in England.

Although R had a small part, it made us beam to hear his two lines projected into the theater with his still strong American accent. The performance was the usual over the top Cheltenham College Junior School production complete with costumes and choreography. If only the drama teacher could captivate her English class in the same manner.

Days later, R went on a class trip to Iceland. Yes, Iceland. Aside from serious issues with its banks, Iceland is more beautiful than one might expect. There is a stark beauty, but there are stunning blue glacier fed lagoons and rivers. The kids swam in the blue lagoon while it was freezing outside, smearing themselves with mud that is bottled and sold for a high price for its anti-aging properties (it gave R a rash on his face). They went whale watching (lots of barfing kids out on the sea) and visited a bunch of geysers.

A highlight was climbing around and behind waterfalls in dangerously icy conditions. Thankfully, one mission was called off due to life threatening conditions (one kid next to R slipped on ice near the edge of one huge waterfall). It snowed while they were there which was real treat for many of the kids who rarely see snow. It was a brilliant time, the lucky dog. Just seems that in return he could take out the garbage with a smile and walk the dog every once in awhile…

This magical geography trip was sold to parents as a trip highlighting geothermal heat and the environment, yet surprisingly, we have heard very little details of the environment. Apparently, field reports and the Icelandic topography did not hold the children’s attention as much as the opposite sex. I would never embarrass R, however, I am just going to say that he is now the IT boy in class and all the “fit” (read: hot) girls are totally diggin’ on him.

So he has that going for him.

R also announced recently that he wants to be a doctor, something a science teacher two years ago predicted. The teacher actually said, 'R is the kind of kid who is so clearly capable in science that it scares me. I fear one day I will lay in surgery and look up to see R's face standing over me.'

R thinks the medical profession is a pretty good gig if you are planning on owning Ferraris and flashy watches (I'm pretty sure R was either a magpie or pimp in a former life. I have never seen anyone outside the rap industry who is drawn to bling in quite the way he is... We continue to explore the concept of 'understated' with him.). Additionally, he is pretty sure he could have his choice of girls if he becomes a doctor. As an afterthought, he thinks he could help people.

Tonight, he is in anger management mode because his biology teacher gave him a 'B' on his recent exam despite having enough correct answers to have earned an 'A'. His work was too sloppy she said. Ya gotta love that: a teacher with principles.

R has a scrapped up face and a black eye from two nasty rugby hits (one collision with a knee, the other from someone stepping on his face with their cleats). We took him last weekend to be fitted for a tux (dinner suit) for his first ball to be held the second week of December. Daniel Craig should be very afraid of his competition.

All in all, we have decided to keep him.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Left of Barney

2008-11-11T12:36:00.010Z

Dear all,

Our spectacular autumn ended abruptly. We are officially into the grey and wet days of an English winter. Heating costs in this country are criminal and this beautiful, old, drafty stone house loses its charm in the winter. Last year, our heating bills were close to mortgage payments. Still, I have an optimism that warms my heart.

This is the secret of my warm heart: the gift of an Obama win. I am skipping through the cold rain with joy in every step.

Last week, I sat with A on my lap and tearfully watched the Obamas vote. The next morning, we gathered as a family at 4:00 to watch the election results. It was history in the making and we were grateful to share the moment with the kids.

I cannot tell you how many people here stayed up all night or woke early to watch results of our election. I’d never lose sleep over election results France. The American election matters to so many people around the world. I had no idea just how seriously the world views it. This time, the United States did not let them down.

Most of you know that I am a bit liberal. Much more liberal than J (Who, although a staunch democrat, seems to inch closer to The Right when I am not looking. At one point last spring, I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of J moon walking like Michael Jackson, to The Right. He crept back and our marriage absorbed his indiscretion.). J reminds me that even Barney the Big Purple Dinosaur, who shares EVERYTHING, has to look left to see me. (For that reason, J opposed the children watching Barney-‘Too much sharing isn’t natural,’ he would quip.).

Obama’s victory touched me deeply.

No matter what your party affiliation, there is no denying that Obama’s win has sparked an energy around the world. I do hope that our great nation comes together to tackle all that troubles it. Living abroad does not allow for the luxury of taking your country for granted. By not being there, I am reminded every day of just how wonderful the United States of America is.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Jeremy

2008-10-20T12:54:00.005+01:00

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

2008-10-18T17:16:00.001+01:00

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

2008-10-15T09:34:00.003+01:00

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

The Patience of Job

2008-09-19T21:25:00.005+01:00

Dear all,

My ray of sunshine has arrived.

My dear friend, Elizabeth, has arrived in England and not a moment too soon. Literally.

I got the guest room ready and I organized day trips. Finally, after months of planning J took the day off to drive to Heathrow (two hours away) and collect her. He called with status reports: her plane landed, baggage claim assigned. Then nothing. No more updates. Finally, I called him assuming they’d be on the way home, but still no Elizabeth. A little worry set in.

More time, more pages over the airport intercom. No Elizabeth. Now near panic. She must have been pulled in immigration, I thought. What could she, the mother of five and a soon to be grandmother have smuggled into England? I chuckled (I swear, only a little and very quietly) at the thought of her being roughed up while jet lagged and quite possibly without lipstick, by some scary immigration officer. J, bless him, was searching endlessly to get information.

Well, wouldn’t you just know? I put the wrong date down on the calendar. Sometimes I do the darndest things.

This brings me to admit a fact that I have been denying to my friends and family on a regular basis for over 17 years: J is a saint. I now admit it: J is for Job.

It is a bad week for me when I have to apologize twice in one week, but it has happened. One fit of PMS insanity and the other, sending him on a wild goose chase at Heathrow. I hate when I do that.

Glad he is the forgiving type.

And so happy to have Elizabeth by my side.

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Promise of Another Year

2008-09-16T20:52:00.003+01:00

Dear all,

The kids are now entrenched in school. M and S continue at the senior school (college) while R enjoys his final year at the Junior along with A who is now big enough to have weekly spelling tests, the bane of my life.

R is Big Man On Campus but it comes with a price: studying for his Common Entrance Exam in June in order to be accepted into college. R has never taken much pride in the academic side of his education. He does, however, possess Nobel Prize winning social skills, which he continues to hone every time the teacher’s back is turned.

M is for once, off to a great start. This is the first year in his entire school career where I have not had to attend an emergency first week parent/teacher meeting. I am missing those conferences just a bit. It was always exciting to see teachers’ eyes bulge and their hair stand on end when they described M’s legendary lack of organization, as if I mightn’t have been aware. When they managed to pull themselves together, they would insist, without exception, they’d have M sorted by the end of the year; I’d nod my head solemnly in gratitude and solidarity, hiding my amusement and doubt. M organized by the end of the year? Good. Luck.

So M has turned over a new leaf. He mostly shows up to class on time. Often he turns in homework. Relatively few illegible assignments are returned. Kudos! Yet for all those successes, he admits that he rarely brings the right books and folders to class but let’s face it, it’s good to have goals.

S, on the other hand, is one of those people who love the promise of a new school year: the scents of new books and autumn in the air. Her academic load gives me a stomachache: Math, History, Religious Ed, Physical Ed, Physics, Biology, Chemistry, English, French, Spanish, Latin and Greek. And my only goal week after week is the same: keep up with the laundry. Also, for fun, she takes Mandarin two days a week at lunchtime, but she thinks this might prove be too much. Ya think?

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Wall

2008-09-14T20:31:00.001+01:00

Dear all,

This summer was, as I have mentioned before, a bit long though we were blessed with a visit from our 13-year-old Prairie Crossing neighbor. Each and every one of us was thrilled to have him with us. He is like a part of our family and, in fact, when we moved to England, I felt deeply that I had left a child behind I missed him so much

We took him to very important places in England such as Cadbury World and Weston-Super-Mare, a seaside town with a proper grand pier. Sadly, two days later, The Grand Pier burned to the ground in a matter of minutes.

J and the boys dragged him around London. What a trooper N was, throwing up on the lawn outside Westminster Abbey and nearly passing out at the Hard Rock Café while fighting a forty-eight hour flu. You can always count on a good time when you visit us.

The homesickness was palpable in our house for weeks after N returned to the USA. Then we endured the Olympics, which came on at 3:00 a.m. and annoyed R to no end because they only interviewed British athletes and the coverage did not include US teams. So those were a wash.

While touring a castle in Scotland, I walked into TWO rooms with the same William Morris Willow wallpaper we have in our house back home. The sight of the wallpaper made my insides hurt. I missed my house.

Ex-Pats often experience a little known phenomenon we refer to as Hitting The One Year Wall. It’s when the charm of living abroad has evaporated. When you miss people who understand that when you say ‘windbreaker’ you mean ‘jacket’ and not beach paraphernalia. Or when you say something gives you the ‘willies’, you are not faced with looks of horror and mothers making mental notes to never let their child play with the little American boy. Ditto the phrase ‘Just blow it off’.

The Wall means you are tired of paying $12 a gallon for gas and $5 for a can of refried beans. Tired of the weather, tired of the five guys at the butcher’s shop staring at your boobs while you order up pork and leek sausages, tired of calling their sorry excuse for band-aids ‘plasters’, tired of hearing Michael Jackson on the radio, tired of the metric system and Celsius. But mostly, I’m tired of trying to figure out WTF is so intriguing about Posh and Becks.

I think, although I am a bit overdue, I may have hit The Wall. And God knows, there better be dark chocolate, Merlot and really good music on the other side….

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Royal and Ancient

2008-09-11T15:15:00.004+01:00

Dear all,

Our reason for visiting Scotland was simple: J desperately wanted to tick off one of the boxes on his To Do This Life list: Play St. Andrews Old Course. We scheduled the trip with our friends in order to watch the Jacques Leglise Tournament-a tournament of Europe’s next golf stars-and scam free meals. Our friend, The Really Good Golfer, was the captain of the Great Britain and Ireland team as they took on continental Europe. Not only did J play the Old Course, another fine links course and a 1920’s hickory shaft course, but we were wined and dined by The Royal and Ancient, golf’s first ruling club and Britain’s version of the United States Professional Golf Association.

The Really Good Golfer is a humble gentleman. He is arguably the finest British amateur golfer. He has played with some of golf’s legends and has played in the US Masters three times. He has received four crystal highball glasses for each hole in one he has made at the Masters. If you are thirsty at their house, you’re as likely to be handed an old Ikea glass as one of his Master’s glasses, although only three remain as one was dropped years ago by one of the kids at dinner. The guy is seriously humble.

So not only did we get to hang out with Europe’s talented new golfers we were treated to receptions filled with some of the world’s oldest money. This is the crowd where the Du Ponts run as does the Cartier family and the Lacostes. And now the Pierces?

The Royal and Ancient Club is the stone building they highlight when you watch the British Open being played at St. Andrews. Most people who work for the Royal and Ancient and certainly the course keepers at the Old Course have never been inside the prestigious club, but there we were, inside the club drinking wine in beautiful glasses etched with the R and A logo. Such a shame my bag was too small to nick any.

The reception was held in a room only recently opened up to women. Portraits of royal and/or long deceased R and A members hung on the walls. The ceiling looked like a Wedgwood ashtray, for lack of a better description, painted in Wedgwood blue with fine moldings defined in white. We were invited into the secretary of the R and A’s office and out onto his infamous balcony for drinks while people down on the Old Course and walking around St. Andrews stared up at us wondering if we were royalty. Or maybe thinking that we were a bunch of stuffy old gits. Same thing.

There were a few speeches, which allowed me time to check out the women’s dresses. It was a bit disappointing as the women were overall an amazingly frumpy lot. One, however, from my vantage point behind, was quite elegant. She was in her mid to late seventies. Her silver hair was cut in a bob and she wore a hot pink very tight dress. No underwear. Bless her, I thought. But, oh my, when she turned around! She obviously burned her bra a lifetime ago and never looked back. Wow. The sight left me speechless, but The Wife lost no time voicing her concern that those aging, sagging, bra-less boobs might have put all the young, handsome golfers off sex.

The best part, aside from The Wife and I holing ourselves up in the ladies room while she filled me in on Royal and Ancient gossip (literally-did you know Prince Andrew is gay?) was being escorted into the Members Only room by The Really Good Golfer.

As a member, he was free to go in and bring J, a male guest. But The Really Good Golfer, as I said before, is quite a gentleman and he also possesses a great sense of humor. He opened the door for his wife and me so that we entered the room first and there we stood, however briefly, alone in a men’s only room.

The room was everything you’d want it to be: the carpets were plaid as were the curtains framing the leaded windows. Walnut paneling. There were worn leather chairs occupied by equally worn, impossibly snobby looking men. There was a moment of surprise on each of the men’s faces as they looked up to see two women with great big smiles on their faces. Then, all in turn, there was a stiffening of the backs. Jaws dropped on cue, each man unable to form words. Then came red faces and clenched hands on leather club chairs. I suggested to The Really Good Golfer that it might be time to leave, but not before the giggles had set in. How obnoxious these men were! How obnoxious The Wife and I were hooting all the way out of the room. I just wanted to shout, “I HAVE MY PERIOD!” or maybe lick something on my way out just to ensure that the Haz Mat team had to be called out.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Even Prisoners get Paroled

2008-09-04T14:18:00.009+01:00

Dear all,

Our dreary English summer is turning into a grey and dreary autumn. While we have had some wonderful moments this summer, some that I will share with you later, I mostly have been holed up with four bored children the whole wet summer. That is, until J and I escaped for five days to St. Andrews, Scotland.

I love Scotland. I mean it. I am completely in love with Scotland. The craggy shoreline, the sea, the mist, the sunshine, the rain, the people. I have had some sort of conversion, a bit like the first time I ever roamed through Vermont. An instant homesickness for place I’ve never been before. We have traveled so much, but I rarely drive through foreign towns and villages and think to myself, ‘Wow. Lucky you. You get to live here,’ but that is exactly how I felt about every Scottish person we passed.

J and I drove up from Cheltenham. We headed north and put Birmingham and Manchester behind us before 9:00 a.m. By the time we entered Cumbria, England, or The Lake District as it is called, we were ready for a break. Cumbria is Beatrix Potter country. We exited the motorway following signs for a rest stop and drove through a heavily wooded, winding road which lead to glass and stone walled lodge nestled in between mountains with a deep pond running right up to the glass wall. Honestly, it was as if any number of Beatrix Potter’s characters would come padding over to us. So spectacular was the setting, we hated to leave. And this was just a rest stop!

We drove further north and entered Scotland. I was a bit disappointed. It just looked so much like England. Then the landscape began to turn. The tidy green grasses slowly grew more stark and yellow. Then we wound around a bend in the road and there it was: the heather. Mounds and mounds of purple hills and mountains fading into the mist. Why does anyone leave Scotland I wondered and that was before we even got to the sea.

We made our way through Glasgow and around Edinburgh and drove up the east coast through tiny but proud villages of weathered grey stone buildings and cottages with bright blue front doors (Scotland’s flag is blue and white). Grandmas walked with grandchildren in record numbers. Scotland is like Ireland with a more grand past-not quite as humble and with better roads, but it is not as painfully cute as our part of England. Rugged and refined. I like that.

Our first sighting of the sea coincided with the first golf course we spotted. The smell of the sea along with freshly cut grass was intoxicating. The air was thick. We rolled down the windows and breathed deeply. The air in Scotland is so pure and clean; it almost feels sharp in your lungs. London leaves your boogers black and in Cheltenham, I do not dust so much as wipe black grime off stuff. It felt so good just to breath in Scotland.

By the time we arrived in St. Andrews, the golf Mecca, I was smitten.

More to follow,

With love from England,

T-Ann

Pig

2008-07-21T09:00:00.007+01:00

Dear all,

I haven’t told you about my Mothers Day gift, Pig. Pig is a Jack Russell Terrier with the looks and markings of a beagle so he is a cuter than most. He has a good temperament for a Jack Russell, which isn’t saying much since they are a notoriously difficult breed. Pig is an English hunting dog through and through, which I hope sends images of red coats and horses into your head, however briefly. Jack Russells are working dogs, though, bred to hunt rats, not foxes. During our Summer of the Rat, Pig remains blissfully unaware. Perhaps he is working on his upward social mobility (so difficult in England), aspiring to become a setter or maybe a retriever. Once R had to throw a dog treat next to a rat so that Pig would take notice of it (then, true to roots, the dog went crazy).

Pig came to live with us in March (England’s ‘Mothering Day’ weekend). He settled in well at first, however, the more comfortable he became, the more he began to act up by way of marking everything in our house. I had my initial pang of buyer’s remorse when he peed the FIRST time on top of our kitchen table. No matter how hard I tried, I no longer could see the value in this dog. And while I am the first to admit I’ve had a bit of buyer’s remorse with every dog (and child for that matter-still do, occasionally), the heinousness of this particular incident disturbed me deeply. The situation did not improve no matter how much I roared at J (The dog was HIS idea, see how that works?). And so it went until we had him fixed (the dog, not J) which is not a standard procedure in this country. ‘Let this be a lesson to you boys,’ I wagged my finger, ‘Do you see how I deal with young males who cross me? I’d keep your room clean, if I were you. And do some homework, while you’re at it.’

We introduced the cage after Pig jumped up on the dining room table while I was gone and ate/ground three chocolate bars (wrapped and in a grocery bag) into the carpet. I am aware how dangerous chocolate is to dogs. I was not concerned. I was PRAYING for a slow doggy death by chocolate.

Now that he has stopped peeing all over the house and is no longer jumping on tables, I have fallen in love with him again. Pig is now nearly perfect except for the bit about wanting to attack every animal he sees. Still working on that.

Pig is far from the big, fluffy dogs we usually go for but we are discovering that smart dogs are just as challenging as dumb dogs. No one would deny that Barley, as loveable as she was, was the world’s dumbest dog. With a smile and grateful heart, she happily lived at the bottom of our pack. Pig needs constant daily reminders of his place. Still, I see the advantages of small and shorthaired Pig: he is portable, doesn’t slobber, doesn’t barf in the back seat and is nearly bullet proof.

We failed to enquire about life expectancy when we adopted Pig. A mistake. Jack Russells can live for more than TWENTY YEARS, which SO would have been a deal breaker. J will be pushing 70, kids long gone and we will still have this dog to walk. J couldn’t be more thrilled. A dog is for life, you know, not just for Christmas

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Strike

2008-07-19T10:23:00.004+01:00

Dear all,

It is all just unfortunate timing, really. Who could have guessed that the rubbish collectors’ strike (second time since we’ve been here) would coincide with the local drains being replaced? I’ll share with you a thing or two I’ve come to know about English rats. First of all, I think a rabbit sized rat is impressive by anyone’s standards, especially when it is dangling from a vine, inches from your window. This makes you feel, well, rather uncomfortable. Second, the sight of rats in England, even the smaller, cuddly, cute ones, the ones that my two younger sons fancy we should keep as pets, recalls images of the London in high school history books or at the very least, scenes from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. I just can’t get ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ out of my head...

Sure, rat watching is fun for now, a jolly good diversion from our over cast and chilly summer, but I can’t help thinking this new sport of ours may grow old in time. It's doubtful that the situation will improve anytime soon and I just don’t think the NHS is equipped to handle The Black Plague. Send supplies.

With love from England,

T-Ann

A's House

2008-07-17T17:09:00.006+01:00

Dear all,

Today is one of those days when I contemplate, not without the occasional watery eye, the two chapters of our lives: Before England and In England, the two very different childhoods the big kids and A will have had. R is off at cricket camp, S off with a friend swinging from the treetops in at an outdoor park in Cirencester. M chose to spend the day walking the dog and cleaning up the kitchen (poorly) in order to avoid possibly having to exert energy and speak in complete sentences. ‘Forget about it,’ I said to A as we jumped into the car, ‘you and I will have fun without him.’

We spent the day at Sudeley Castle (sudeleycastle.co.uk), which is in the ancient Saxon town of Winchcombe. We spent the day wandering the gardens, looking into ponds for koi and avoiding goose poop. There is a brand new, magnificent wooden climbing castle for the kids, which makes you long for the days before our country was litigation happy. It has a big ‘ole metal slide that would have been outlawed in The States a generation ago. As luck would have it a friend of A’s was there with her family, so A was quite happy to stay for hours.

I have this little boy who only ever swims in pools. He has never placed one little toe into Forest Lake (the lake we lived on for more than ten years). He was too young in Prairie Crossing to remember the magical world of the organic farm, prairie grass or bugs (I’m going to digress: M once saved an egg sack of praying mantis. He put it into the green velvet hatbox, which houses all our family’s most precious treasures, tissue wrapped treasures, like dead butterflies, a raccoon skull, cicada shells, leaves too perfect to leave behind and the like. Months later, I removed the lid of the hatbox to add the most perfect pebble someone had collected, when out exploded- I am NOT kidding- hundreds if not THOUSANDS of baby preying mantis all over me- yes, in my hair- like a Stephen King movie. Go on. Take a moment to imagine THAT scene. M was safe at school, lucky him. The hatbox lived outside for quite some time after that.).

A will never know a childhood with herds of children thundering in and out of neighborhood homes. Or the security of knowing that someone, anyone will take care of you in a tight knit neighborhood if you are hurt or hungry or thirsty. He’ll not have eaten corn dogs or pickles on sticks at the state fair. He will not own a pair of beaded moccasins purchased in the Wisconsin Dells, which is more disappointing to me than you might guess.

But this is what he WILL know: travel and adventure, how to act in an airport and a cathedral. He will have eaten squid, snails, rabbit, horse, octopus and black sausage. He will have spent long summer days at castles pretending he was a knight and the Tewkesbury Park Hotel, swimming. He will have worn winter jammies all year long. He will remember walking into town for almost every need we have and he'll remember handing the lady in the Post Office 10p for a sweet after school.

While I was on the phone with my cousin, Claudia, the other day, A was doodling on a notepad nearby. Later, I picked up the notepad to see his drawing and without even realizing why, my eyes filled with tears and my throat was grabbed in a way that was both sad and happy. It was a drawing of a boy next to his house. The boy’s head was balloon like from which unsteady arms and legs protruded. Next to the boy was a house. This house wasn’t the inverted ‘v’ with two walls like American children draw. It was a very tall, narrow house, with lots of windows and an impressive front door- a massive doorknob in the middle- and curly cues for the iron balcony. It is a drawing of the only kind of house A really knows: An English Regency townhouse.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Broadway

2008-07-15T08:10:00.007+01:00

Dear everyone,

The beginning of our summer holiday was very wet. Thursday it rained all day without a break, which is unusual in England. Normally, a rain cloud will empty and then move on. Often it will softly rain when the sky is blue and sunny. I have learned to look to the West. If I see a dark cloud, I wait five minutes to leave the house. Once it has passed it is safe to go outside. I can say that the rain rarely catches me. If it does rain, you simply pop into a shop or stop for a cup of tea and wait till it passes.

So Sunday we went to our sweet church, St. Phillip and St. James (Pip and Jim’s) and afterwards pounced on the sunny day. J took the boys golfing while S, A and I went out for a drive in the country. We headed to Broadway, a picturesque Cotswold village. I mean this town is cute. It is a postcard village with honey colored Cotswold stone houses with worn steps and many with impossibly small front doors. Each house looks so content, joyfully sitting in the same place for hundreds of years, maybe leaning just a bit with age. Every house is covered in wisteria and heavily scented roses in such a way that I wonder if one could exist without the other. Gardens explode with color-always shades of pink and purple and white. You’ve never seen more plump and satisfied bees. Every so often, just for punctuation, there will stand a storybook thatched roof cottage with a cheerfully painted front door, window boxes bursting and dripping and timbered walls alive with ambling roses. The houses often have names, not number for addresses, names like Tittlemouse House and The Old Bakery. Tipsy Cottage and Snowdrop House. Or The Rabbit Box. I am SO naming our house when we go home…

On High Street, girls serve ice cream from old fashioned white carts wearing white Capri pants, pink shirts and straw boater hats, pink ribbons fluttering in every breeze

Because S and I were not overpowered by testosterone, we decided to take the long way home. Understand that to get from Cheltenham to Broadway you take a scenic two-lane road. Such was the beauty of the day, even a two-lane road seemed too fast paced for us. With lavender fields in my rear view mirror, we found a one-lane road that took us up hills and down into valleys, through miles of crazy quilt farmland separated by stone fences. We passed hundreds of fluffy sheep, but not a house for miles. We drove downward through dense forest, which had the feel of burrowing and when the occasional beam of sunlight broke through, the damp air and dust made the light swirl like a dream. It was a fairy tale. Indeed, I told A that he should keep an eye out for fairies; as everyone knows these are the sorts of places fairies prefer to gather. S empathically agreed. ‘The fairies are all dead,’ was A’s response from the back seat after a minute or two of looking. S is now concerned about his mental health.

When we reemerged onto a two-lane road, we followed another crooked wooden sign in the shape of an arrow. We drove down a wonderfully winding and wooded road, a deep ravine on the passenger’s side. We curled our way through one more chocolate box village, avoiding walkers and horses in the roadway. In town, people are less willing to smile, but in the country everyone smiles, waves and nods. There is an agreeable sense of unity when you share sunshine and unhurried space with bikers, walkers and riders.

Memories like these will make my heart ache when we return to the US.

With love from England,

T-Ann

The End of the Year

2008-07-12T17:12:00.001+01:00

Dear all,

The end-of-the-year parties are over. Thank God. I won’t bore you with details and honestly, I am not sure I can come up with any more descriptions of refined English school parties. It is all the same: blah, blah, blah, BEAUTIFUL FROCKS, blah, blah, blah, CHAMPAGNE. I hope I never have to peer into another picnic basket as long as I live.

M and S’s day houses hosted a BBQ Friday, the 4^th of July, complete with American flag bunting, a band and fireworks. Afterwards, I was spent. I just didn’t think I could get through another day of picnics. Long before tea was served in the marquee the following afternoon at the Junior’s Parents Day, I slipped into the car and fell asleep. I was like the Little Engine Who Couldn’t: I simply could not go on chatting one more minute. We were home by mid afternoon, in jammies and watching what I consider to be one of the finest low budget movies ever made: Employee of the Month. This film is remarkable, not in the least because its writer did such an astonishing job of capturing the essence of twelve-year-old boy humor. Pure genius. So many writers try to sustain this kind of humor, but fail to deliver for a full hour and a half. And with Costco as a set, how can you lose? Brilliant.

I came home Saturday afternoon and I didn’t leave the house for two days. It was glorious, but now I am beginning to think our plans for staying home this summer were a bit short sighted. The instigator, R, is driving me crazy already. R walks around the house starting arguments with everyone. Even if you do not hear his footsteps or voice, you can locate R by the argument that develops. It’s R’s own take on GPS. We received his grades early in the week. We were, how do I say it, less than impressed. R apparently gave himself permission to take off the last term of school. That is the thanks you get when you raise independent thinkers. If only he was graded on immature antics, poor penmanship and talking during class. He’d be headed to Harvard.

On Thursday morning, M strolled into the kitchen after 11:30. I tried not to notice. I tried to be upbeat. I tried to remind myself that it was only the first week of summer vacation and that it was raining. I tried to remind myself that he was growing and he needed his sleep. In the end, it just didn’t matter. I exploded about his lack plans for the summer (except receiving serious Latin tutoring, which should be a whole lot of fun. All kidding aside, even M had to agree this was a MUCH better scenario than the Latin Camp I was threatening-even I thought Latin Camp was harsh.). He came to visit me later that day at work. He, A and Pig were all soaking wet from a long walk in the rain, but very upbeat: M, with his little brother and dog in tow, secured a paper route for the summer. He is now like his twin sister who has taken over my hours at Blue: gainfully employed. So, once he delivers the papers each morning and studies his Latin, he is free to sleep and eat all day long.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Road Works

2008-07-09T10:52:00.005+01:00

Good morning,

In the U.S. you are all, no doubt, sharing in the glory that is Construction Season. In England we too have our share, however, you would NEVER believe ‘road works’ in this country. First of all, if you can imagine, the streets are completely closed. No access to businesses. No flaggers or temporary lights to allow traffic through, albeit slowly. They will close a two-mile stretch of road for a week or two even though they will only work one block at a time. If you are the unfortunate owner of a small business at the far end of the planned construction, the road in front of your business is likely to be completely closed to all traffic for a full week to 10 days before the construction crews reach your section of road.

The construction companies start later in the morning than back home, they break for lunch and tea and wrap up their days about 4:30. There are no detour signs. No one works at night. The thing that I find impossible to understand is that business owners don’t complain! The Brits still carry the attitude of ‘make do and mend’. People ask me, when I enquire about business, what construction is like in Chicago. Ha! Political elections (and in all likelihood lives) would be lost if construction was handled in this manner. Here, the mild mannered English shrug and say, ‘But what can we do?’

The construction has put even more bikes on the road. Bikes and motorcycles are such a danger here. They do not follow motoring rules of the road. Motorcyclists are able to be both vehicle and pedestrian simultaneously and I cannot tell you how dangerous this makes the narrow roads.

On our block alone this week, there have been three bicyclists hit by cars (One cyclist hit and thrown off his bike just two feet in front of M and me one morning-thankfully he was shaken and sore, but okay. He had dropped off his five-year-old daughter who had been riding on the back of the bike, just minutes before at school.). Judging by the squealing of bike brakes and abusive language, a fourth one was narrowly avoided this morning.

We are blessed to live in town where my car is hardly driven (I have the privilege of WALKING through street construction. With all the construction workers, this is, either degrading or ego boosting, I haven’t figured out which.). Because my car is small and rarely used, I fill up my tank only every couple of months; so infrequently, in fact, it is the warning light on the dashboard that reminds me-a trait J finds much more than frustrating-but have I EVER run out of gas? No. I’m in no hurry to fill up. Petrol is about $10 a gallon, with prices expected to rise over the summer.

With love from England,

T-Ann

A Teenage Boy

2008-07-08T10:55:00.003+01:00

Dear all,

M has grown up so quickly. When did it happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday I was telling him how to pee into the toilet? Oh, that’s right. I DID just have to talk to him yesterday about this. Wasn’t it just yesterday I was encouraging him to string more and more words together to form sentences? Right. Same thing. Just yesterday I had to beg him to stop grunting. Wasn’t it just yesterday he’d take two naps a day and shove food into his face with glee? Ditto. It WAS yesterday. So being a teenage boy isn’t that different from being a toddler, from what I can tell, except he isn’t nearly as cute as he used to be. I had unflinching patience when he was chubby and cuddly. My patience is now directly related to the amount of words in M’s limited vocabulary.

M has a vocab of about five words, but these are sounds, really and do not qualify as words per se. Mostly he communicates with one word, ‘Wa’. I think this means, ‘What’, but it is hard to tell because he uses this sound as a response to each question or statement directed at him. ‘Huh’ is another popular response for either question or statement. ‘Nnn’ is ‘no’ and ‘yy’ means ‘yes’. ‘Mmm’ is a bit trickier because it has at least three or four meanings. It is as likely to mean ‘what’ as it is to mean ‘yes’. It could also mean he likes the dinner he is shoveling into his mouth. (Don’t mistake this for a compliment, however. It is only a primal response to the filling of his stomach, which is always empty.) There is also an outside chance that he is using this particular grunt to communicate that he agrees with you, but this is unlikely.

About four months ago, his room took on an odor that can only be described as stench. While he was away recently, S and I dragged his mattress into the yard to air every day for four days. I thoroughly cleaned the room. Aired out his shoes. Got rid of old clothes that may have been retaining odor. By the end of the week, the room smelled just fine. M returned and within days it again smelled like the inside of a gym bag/mouth/decaying bowel system. HE doesn’t smell, so is it the chemistry of a teenage boy that makes the room so pungent: a caustic combination of otherwise subtle odors that just blows your mind? Does it fade in time? Will he ever move out?

The most foreboding aspect of all of this is that R cannot smell anything in M’s room. Please don’t tell me that in a couple of years, BOTH their rooms will smell like this!

With love from England,

T-Ann

The NHS, again

2008-07-06T13:58:00.002+01:00

Dear all,

I am sitting here wondering if I should unload on you (again) about the National Health Service. Are you saturated with my NHS complaints yet? I’m not. I think I could write about the NHS forever. There is something undeniably nostalgic about reliving the 1970’s every time you enter a doctor’s office in England.

I have surrendered to the sinus infection that I’ve been brewing for quite awhile. Even the Chinese medicine man cannot fix me. When I called our surgery (medical practice) I spoke with the same doctor whom I confronted last year citing her lack of ethics and medical skills in an award winning performance, complete with tears, that was somewhere between a justice seeking Sally Fields and an insane Glenn Close. S was suffering from pain and blood in her urine for MONTHS and we were told repeatedly to go home and hope the problem would go away. This lack of care coincided with R having his second bout of issues with, shall we say, his bits. The doctor’s answer to R’s problems were, ‘Well, everyone has pain and swelling sometimes. This is just his time.’ At the same time, M had warts removed from his feet by yet another doctor who did not wash his hands or wear gloves. How FREAKING nasty is that? All these problems fell on the heels of R having a seriously infected cut on his finger, which looked more like something you’d purchase at the butcher and throw on the grill than an actual appendage. I questioned the doctor’s choice of antibiotics (Four times a day? You are joking). The doctor spent five minutes thumbing through a manual for alternative antibiotics. There weren’t any. Only two types: penicillin or tetracycline. Having an opinion about your care is, well, frowned upon here. Doctors do not like informed patients.

So, Friday, when the doctor asked me what antibiotics are most effective for me, I laughed and said that the American Z Pack, the once a day/five day antibiotic works beautifully. Long pause. ‘Mrs. Pierce,’ the doctor said in a tone of forced calm, like she was asking me to hand over the gun, ‘You know we do not have anything like that in this country.’ When CAN we expect it in this country, I enquired? ‘Mrs. Pierce,’ same pause, same tone, ‘You know I cannot answer that question.’ So I will try to remember to take the old four times day penicillin that she assures me ‘works just fine for British bugs in British people’.

Wasn’t I just saying I’d embrace all that was good enough for the British? I may have lied.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Last Week

2008-07-02T09:17:00.003+01:00

Good morning,

Is it possible I forgot to write about our hip and happening last week? June 21, J and I attended the Cheltenham College Junior School ball. This year’s ball was even more enjoyable than last. We had what I was lovingly referring to as a Pre Prom Party: four other couples who were sharing our table joined us for canapés (appetizers) and Cheltenham’s drink of choice, champagne. We have always had exceptionally fun friends, I must say, so this was just a wonderful evening of dancing and the best of company. The English have an endearing phrase on ball invitations, ‘Carriages at 1:00 a.m.’. For some reason, we always seem to be the last to leave and, therefore, our ‘carriage’ didn’t arrive until closer to 2:00 a.m. As you might imagine, the following day, J’s birthday, was a bit of a gentle affair…

On Tuesday evening, this edgy mum headed into Birmingham for the John Mayer concert. John Mayer is relatively unknown in this country. S and a friend, Mary who discovered John Mayer while in the USA this past winter, organized tickets to the concert months ago. Unfortunately, S was not able to attend because she was participating in the Duke Of Edinburgh Awards. Currently, she is working towards a bronze award: out door training, survival skills, orienteering and camping skills. The kids go onto earn silver and gold awards in the following years, the gold award being achieved when you are dropped in the middle of nowhere, survive on your own and manage to find your way home. Isn’t that called hazing? The best students from school were chosen. I find it odd that the best and brightest are chosen to survive alone in the dark and wet of Wales. I’ve been a teacher. I think the pain in the ass kids should be made to survive in the wilderness.

So. Back to young and trendy me going to the concert. First of all, I wish I could describe the look of horror when I told S that I’d attend the concert without her. Like I was too old to hang with the students. Please. Mary and her mother and another lucky girl all went.

Here is the truth: I am too old to hang with the students. Although Mary assured us there were seats, there weren’t (she knew we wouldn’t go otherwise). The venue reminded me SO much of the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago (or ‘brawl’ room as we referred to it). With me so far, former youth of the greater Chicagoland area? Sticky floors, no a/c, smelly, lots of bars, one small filthy bathroom. Wow. I wanted to go home. The concert was okay, although John Mayer was not as hot as I thought he ought to have been considering what we paid for the tickets. I’m just saying, for the price, he could have worked a bit harder on his biceps, that’s all. And re-thought the black wife beater he was sporting. So Helen and I left the girls to rock it out, while we hung out towards the back, close to a fire exit.

The thing that really got me about the concert was the fact that he didn’t sing his big hit, the one that made him ‘John Mayer’, Your Body is a Wonderland, because years ago he decided that he was tired of singing it and that he didn’t want to be remembered by that one ‘wedding song’. First of all, I have to say, whose wedding? If, at my wedding, I had played a song about not showing up for work so I could suck on someone’s ‘bubble gum tongue’, I don’t think my mother would have ever fully recovered. No one has ever played that song at a wedding. Second, get over yourself, John! It is not like you are ELTON JOHN who has decided, after decades, to no longer sing Candle in the Wind. And, God help me, wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in a world where we never had to LISTEN to that song again?

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Talent Show

2008-07-01T10:05:00.004+01:00

Dear all,

I have been asked how I manage to be myself around some of the world’s brightest and/or most talented people who are fellow parents at school. Saturday, I think I figured out why it doesn’t intimidate me.

Saturday afternoon and evening were spent feting our school. The occasion was the celebration of the Junior School’s 100 years on its current site. There were a ton of people and, this shouldn’t surprise you, picnicking. I swear, eight hours of small talk can wear even me out, but as I stood there chatting with other parents that day, I figured something out.

As part of the day’s activities there was a children’s talent show. Fifty-eight kids auditioned and only seventeen acts were chosen. R was chosen for two acts. That’s right, TWO! You can imagine my beaming face when R took his place on the outdoor stage; his image projected onto a massive screen for the curious who were too far away to catch the subtleties of his performance. His first act was (a drum roll please…) smooshing an empty 7-UP can between his shoulder blades and, additionally, carrying a shoe around between his aforementioned shoulder blades. Very well received by the audience, by the way. His second act was himself and a friend wrestling, while on their knees in what appeared to be some sort of yoga position. The audience received this with lesser enthusiasm. His older siblings were horrified.

Other acts included a band and other children displaying athletic skills.

So you wonder how any of this relates to me feeling confident enough to talk to other parents with ease? I’ll tell you. The girl in the band has a famous father who wasn’t there that night because he is touring the US to sold out shows all summer long. The kid with athletic skills has a father who is an English national treasure and has a statue of his likeness in town. How could I NOT feel confident with these people? Of course their children will be talented! How could they not be talented? These kids are blessed with good genes not to mention the reserves of money that seem to go hand in hand with talent, brains and ability. But our children? Just look at their parents: ZERO talent. Our children are wonderful because they have risen to life’s challenges despite coming from a gene pool void of any talent! They are bright even though their mother’s answer to any and all questions is, ‘I don’t know. Go google it.’ Sheer determination to rise above their watery gene pool. It makes me proud. It makes me good enough.

I feel at ease, I suppose, because I am just as proud of my kids as the famous parents are of their children. Let’s just see THEIR kid walk around on a stage, shirt off, boxer shorts a good three or four inches above his jeans-and who knows the last time they were changed- carrying a dirty shoe around on his boney back. We’re all just the same, proud of our kids, doing what we hope is best and wishing someone would do something, ANYTHING, to ease congestion every morning in the school parking lot.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-27T19:59:00.001+01:00

June 27, 2008

Good morning,

I believe one of the sweetest sounds I have ever heard is the gentle and merry clanking of milk bottles as the milkman makes his early morning rounds in England. Make no mistake about it. The milkman’s trade in England does not in any way resemble dairy delivery in the US. There are no refrigerated trucks; logos slapped across the sides, heavy sliding doors slamming repeatedly up and down the street, there are no plastic coolers, no bulky half-gallon milk jugs. Instead, the English milkman is ever so softly reminiscent of a nursery rhyme. His truck really isn’t a truck so much as a covered golf cart pulling what looks like an extended flower cart filled with milk bottles. It doesn’t take much to envision a horse pulling the cart. A cheery striped awning in either yellow or blue covers the cart. The purr of the small engine and the festive melody of slender, foil topped clanking bottles wakes me up two mornings a week and when I hear it, I smile, roll over and go back to sleep knowing that the world is going to be okay: the milk is being delivered. It harkens back to a not so distant time when the English truly felt that nearly all the ills of the world, from war to disobedient children, could be cured with a nice, hot cup of tea. If, by some rare chance, I haul myself out of bed and go for a run, I may encounter two or three milkmen going about their rounds. Each of them waves. I’ll tell you right now, in the cool and hush of the early morning to be greeted with a nod and a ‘Morning, Luve!’ is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-26T08:28:00.003+01:00

June 25, 2008

Dear all,

Grab a jacket; Hell hath frozen over, I’m afraid. Yes, the one thing I was most passionate about when we moved to England (aside from how we were going to source Skippy peanut butter), indeed one of the “terms” of my agreement to move here, was that no British dentist would ever lay one old fashioned instrument into the mouths of my children. We would fly home for our dental needs. When I bit down on a chunk of glass in a restaurant at Christmastime (Dining out here is maddening. Either you are biting down on shards of glass, or the food, service and price make you feel as if you are), I waited until we were home in March to have my tooth x-rayed. Arguably, this was a bit over the top. But, I will tell you; it is intensely gratifying to cling to my outdated American notions of British dentistry. Secretly, I enjoy looking at bad British teeth knowing that American dentistry is far superior. This thought, then, encourages me to reinforce in my tiny mind, the US’s overall dominance. (If I am honest with you, though, it’s obvious that my need to look down on the Brits’ teeth is just my insecure way of over compensating for the crushing and internationally humiliating fact that Bush was elected twice.) My friend, Mark, recently watched a BBC show in the US called, ‘Britain’s Worst Teeth’. Undoubtedly, good television. So, anyway, no dentist in this country was touching our teeth. As is so often the case when I start to feel all smug and satisfied, I am compelled to guiltily slink back into reality. M is now sporting braces, English style. Every bit the railroad tracks we saw back home in the 70’s. Never mind. M will thank me for overcoming my prejudice when he is out of braces before he turns 16 and not into them when he is 18, back in the US. So, I’ve learned my lesson, no doubt about it. I will embrace all that the Brits have to offer. Well, I think it goes without saying, I won’t eat runny baked beans for breakfast, but, GENERALLY speaking, if it is good enough for them, it will be good enough for us.

That being said, for the record, I want to make one thing clear: I do not put these feet in stirrups for ANYONE who does not hold a license to practice medicine in the USA.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-24T10:58:00.003+01:00

June 20, 2008

Dear all,

I collected A from school yesterday. I was standing with a friend who teaches American and British politics at the senior school. The Major spent his gap year as a high school senior in the US. The Major, eyes ever twinkling and chuckling in an unsupportive manner, not so secretly revels in the fact that A is slowly acquiring British mannerisms. You can imagine The Major’s chortle when A ran from his classroom to me clutching a small white paper bag he received at the zoo the previous day. He reached in and proudly pulled out a pencil. ‘Look,’ A shouted, ‘This pencil looks like a zeb-bra.’ (There is no ‘z’ as we know it here. The letter ‘z’ is pronounced ‘zed’ and zebra rhymes with, say, jebra. They don’t sing our alphabet song. Zed doesn’t rhyme with the last word of the song, ‘me’. Also, ‘h’ is pronounced, ‘haich’). ‘And, look!’ A squealed with excitement, ‘We all got rubbers!’ In England, it is apparently uncontroversial to hand out rubbers to young children…

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-18T09:12:00.001+01:00

June 18, 2008

Dear all,

We celebrated Father’s Day in posh English style. I might be able to get used to this lady-of-the manor lifestyle. We spent the afternoon at the Greenway Hotel in Cheltenham. This is the same hotel where we lunched after M and S’s confirmation. Google if you are bored. It is so lovely. We booked tickets to an afternoon falconry demo (possibly the LAST thing I would have requested to do on Mother’s Day) and arrived slightly ahead of time. We walked the grounds, in and out of secret gardens without M who lazily commandeered a garden bench in the sun. Good thing. Staff appeared carrying small tables and china service for five (R was away at a 24 hour “experience” at the senior school). We were served hot chocolates, tea and champagne out in the garden. While enjoying our drinks, the refined waiter, looking like a butler, reappeared with a tray of scones, clotted cream, raspberry jam and an assortment of biscuits and cookies. I mean, honestly. Didn’t you think all that stuff was just a stereotype? We gobbled the scones and battled aggressively with silver butter knives for clotted cream. If I have learned but one thing during these past two years, it is this: there is never enough clotted cream. I could have sat in that garden all day, but eventually the falcon guy showed up.

Falconry. Yet another career for which I am not cut out. It is unfathomable to me that one might actually enjoy spending each and every day, hours at a time, training birds to fly away and then return (Not to mention handling all that warm, raw chicken the birds tug and eat. You just know it has to smell terrible.). Just the thought of the tediousness makes me edgy. Argh. Don’t get me started. Anyway, as usual, it didn’t take long before the kids jumped in to volunteer to hold all the birds. J even had a go. Not surprisingly, I took a pass.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-14T14:02:00.002+01:00

June 14, 2008

Dear all,

Yesterday was A’s fifth birthday and, just like the day he was born, it was Friday the 13^th. How telling. A came into this world on his own terms: he had to be turned because he was breech and a couple of weeks later, I was induced and actually went home later that evening exhausted and with nothing but a headache. He refused to be born. When finally he decided to make an entrance, it was Friday the 13^th. His headstrong pre-natal tendencies were very much an indication of his post-natal personality. Still, he does get under your skin and we adore the little man who rules our house with an iron fist.

A woke everyone up early so we could all celebrate his day. The big kids staggered into the kitchen to watch the presents being opened. He got a “real” watch after asking for a new one for months. “I want a watch where the hands move on their own and it isn’t made of wood.” Fair enough, I suppose.

His big gift was a Playmobil airplane (or ‘aero’ plane if you are British). It is a sturdy aircraft complete with figures. Playmobil must have updated itself. It is so right on: The passengers are no longer a family with a mom and dad and 2 children. The family consists a boy accompanied by his mother. The flight attendant frowns, sports an orange fake tan, rolls her eyes and smells strongly of migraine inducing perfume. The pilot’s blazer has an ever-so-faint outline of a handgun. We had fun checking out the baggage handlers, too. They are darling, jonesing for a smoke and, if you hold them up to your ear, threatening to strike. We’re looking forward to adding to the set over time, hoping beyond all hopes that Playmobil has by Christmas added an airport security set to their line. What child doesn't love the drug sniffing dogs? The thought of A playing with plastic burley, 5 o’clock shadowed women warms my heart. Maybe then we could make believe play the time when M got pulled aside in London’s Gatwick Airport by some overzealous security worker and was searched, suspected of having a grenade in his pocket. M reached into his pocket and produced instead, a pinecone. I doubt Playmobil will include an action figure of an American-looking mother who, when the right buttons are pushed, flips out and spouts off about her son’s civil liberties. But then, she is why Playmobil also makes the police car.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-11T20:32:00.002+01:00

June 12, 2008

Dear all,

This blogging thing has been wonderful for me. I can write to my heart’s content without feeling like a pain, but apparently blogging comes at a price: I cannot keep anything too personal hanging out there in cyberspace. Not like sharing my preference in underwear isn’t personal, but no one can hunt me down, tie me up and force me to wear shoes that pinch until I tell them everything I know about furniture placement, based solely on the fact that I’ve written I wear thongs. Sadly, by using our names, I leave our family vulnerable. I will, going forward use simply our initials and will go back and edit my previous entries. For friends, especially in England, I may use made up names if I am feeling clever (For instance, the double barrel name Mr. Posh-Wanker immediately springs to mind when I think of the Headmaster at the senior school.). I hope this all doesn’t become too distracting. I think it really bites, to be honest, but since my whole life I have attracted the unsavory/stalker types (and, God knows, I am the first to admit they all are generally good fun at first…) it just makes good sense to be a bit prudent. I’m all about good judgment.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-10T20:31:00.003+01:00

June 9, 2008

Dear all,

Saturday we celebrated A's birthday (5 years old on June 13). A and thirteen of his closest friends gathered in Stroud at Go Bananas, a germ infested indoor soft playground. We have never done a full on birthday party for any of the older kids. Are we too tired to say ‘no’ we wondered? Birthdays here are quite different than back home. For one, the home party is almost unheard of. Besides, in all my years of teaching pre-school and observing the older kids’ classes, I have never seen a group of such testosterone pumped boys in all my life. Power Rangers rule even though most of them, including A, have never seen an episode. Even to have three or four boys over for cake and a few games was completely out of the question. The party went well with the kids playing on the equipment and then lunching on little tea sandwiches. The tea sandwich really does exist here. They don’t taste very good and the crust less white bread does get stuck on the roof of your mouth, but, never mind, they go down a treat.

We left A’s party with all his presents (still wrapped-no one unwraps presents at the party) and headed for Tewkesbury where M and S were participating in the Cheltenham College Regatta. What a dreamy afternoon. We arrived at the College Boat House later than most parents and the bank of the river was already lined with picnicking parents. Some were in folding chairs at tables draped with linens others on blankets laid out on the ground. Well-behaved English hunting dogs sat patiently beside their owners (We left our dog, Pig, at home. He qualifies as an English hunting dog, however he feels that anything with four legs, wings or anything that resembles a vacuum is to be consumed in an urgent and rather violent way. We’re working on that...). The sky was blue, clouds were fluffy and when the ice cream man drove in I thought I might need to be pinched. So civilized, so perfect. We sat sipping Elderberry Presse in the sunshine.

J and I had yet to see M and S row. They both started rowing in January first with indoor training and then all spring spending miserable afternoons on The River Severn in the wind, rain and cold. They came home soaking wet with bloody knuckles and chills right down to the bones. But on a summer afternoon, to see the boats gliding through the water in such an effortless manner, you’d never know the pain that went into learning to row. Rowing is a beautiful sport to watch. So graceful. So powerful. It is a team effort but you can see the strength of each shoulder, arm and leg as the skulls glide by. The kids make it look easy, but just enter into the skull and not topple into the water is a skill that must be mastered. The afternoon was divine and when it was time for tea, we gathered under the canopy to enjoy triangular, crust less sandwiches and tea. Does life get sweeter?

It does if you are able to leave the regatta and head back to Cheltenham to watch R play cricket. The good thing about cricket, and there aren’t many, is that R can start a cricket game in the early afternoon and in the early evening, after you have done more than most people do in an entire weekend, you can still make the end of the game. R had one of his best games yet, but managed to lose one school shoe which will prove to be fairly uncomfortable for him (Ask my parents. They were here to witness the last shoe loss, only a few weeks ago.) R spent his Sunday washing our cars in order to raise money to buy a new pair. His entire income goes towards shoes. A concept to which I am familiar.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-08T19:51:00.002+01:00

June 8, 2008

Good morning,

We are basking in the glory of a breathtaking summer day in Cheltenham. Yesterday's rain was one of the most depressing days yet. Cold rain has no place in June. It was so soggy that even my umbrella couldn't keep up. After a walk to school and back in the morning, my umbrella began running its red dye over my light colored linen dress.

This dress is cursed. I wore it recently in Florida, walked through a parking lot and was met by a wall of rain. It came from nowhere and I was drenched. I raced along hugging the outside wall of CVS until I reached the front doors. They wouldn't open. I'm banging on the doors and the cashier inside was gesturing that I should step back a few paces and enter the automatic doors directly from the front, not from the side. Funny thing though, in the pouring rain, I wasn't in the mood for charades so I continued to pound until a customer walked up to activate the automatic doors and let me in. I was drenched and thanking the man when I looked around and realized everyone was staring at my dress, which had become ENTIRELY transparent. And clingy.

I’d like, if I may, to say a word or two about thong underwear. While I am no stranger to Bridget Jones undies, there is a time when less is more. My friend, Cindy, who has given me spot on advice for thirty years (‘Omigod, T, put on your seatbelt!’), told me I should buy a thong one size too large. For obvious reasons, I will be forever grateful to Cindy for sharing her wisdom. However, in terms of coverage, going up the one size didn’t do too much for me, as I was standing there in CVS essentially naked. I ran for cover, crouched and dodging in and out of aisles, avoiding people-I did have to apologize to one old man in the toothpaste aisle- until I had the good fortune to find myself hiding behind an end cap of cheap bathrobes. In perfect Lucy and Desi form, when J found me, (he had been in Dunkin Donuts procuring large amounts of coffee to bring back to England.), I was standing in the cough syrup aisle, dripping wet, wearing a fluffy purple bathrobe. We laughed so hard I nearly wet my pants, which obviously wouldn't have mattered much, anyway.)

So the fact that my umbrella was slowly ruining my dress was just the way the whole day went, culminating with a late afternoon conference with R's English teacher who, as they do, started off by presenting R's positive qualities particularly noting that R was really more of a math and science guy and (with great enthusiasm) that R, in his recent exams, did an outstanding job using capital letters and punctuation. Hmmm. Seeing as R is TWELVE; you'd rather think he'd have a grip on those matters. It was going to be a painfully long conference. But in the light of a whole new bright, perfect English day, I'll give my red floral umbrella, linen dress and R another chance.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-06T18:27:00.005+01:00

June 6, 2008

Good morning,

Our Speech Day was a beautiful, English day. S made us incredibly proud by winning, as I said before, three awards for Chemistry, History and Religious Studies. She was also awarded the Headmaster's Award for Academic Excellence. It made for great day.

Having been to an extravagent 50th birthday party on Friday night and a grueling day of sunshine, champagne and lovely frocks on Saturday's Speech Day, J and I struggled to pack the car and leave the house in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The house looked less like we had left for vacation and more like we fled: dishes on the table, life's equipment strewn everywhere, crumpled party dresses on the floor. Somehow, we managed to make our early morning ferry out of Portsmouth.

The ferry was decidedly better than flying. It had restaurants, shops, lounges, a movie theater and, most importantly, cabins. Thankfully, we had the foresight to book a cabin. It was the beginning of half term break and the boat was crawling with kids. By 6 a.m. that morning, we were VERY tired of our own kids and had no interest in sharing space with anyone else's. We were able to rent a couple DVD's and rest as we made our six hour journey to Normandy, France. When we disembarked in France, we were a ten minute drive to the hotel and, from there, a half a block to the sea.

The hotel was a family run, simple and charming place. It was not the huge American chain hotel normally preferred by J, but it did the trick and the non English speaking owners and their darling school age daughter were wonderful hosts. We dropped our cases in the room and headed to the sea where I was immediately ripped off by a pimply faced French youth who refused to give me the correct change for a bucket and spade (an A Englishism). I was glad we had refueled on various French fried doughs. It eased my anger. And, after collecting shells and tossing washed up star fish back into the sea, we were witness to the pure ecstasy of A on a bungy jumping contraption. His unbridled joy, which is a side that his guarded self rarely makes public, melted my bitter heart and I let the pimply youth incident drop. Sort of.

We hit the historical beaches of Normandy on Memorial Day. At Pointe du Hoc, we walked through craters left by bombs and climbed through the gun encampments and even through a couple of bunkers. On Omaha Beach, it was hard to imagine the horrors that took place here in 1944. It was one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. Soft sand surrounded by those infamous cliffs and hills. We played for a long time in the sand. We thought about what it must have looked, sounded, smelled and felt like to those brave men who fought there.

We visited the American Cemetery and arrived just in time for a small Memorial Day ceremony. A general in charge of all the national cemeteries, gave a short speech. He spoke of the bravery of the US soldiers who died in all parts the world. "These soldiers have died protecting other countries. Has the United States ever asked for money or colonies or slaves in return? No. We have only ever asked for a place to bury our dead." It was so powerful as we looked out over a cemetery, technically American soil as the land was gifted to us by France, with well over 9,000 white crosses and the occasional Star of David, all pointing to America. It left me breathless. We went to thank the men and women who spoke, but the only words I could choke out were, "thank you" before I completely broke down, my pride, gratitude and love of country just overcoming me. There are those that worry that by living abroad our children will not be fully American or patriotic. Moments like those we shared at the American Cemetery will be forever suspended in time. I doubt the kids will forget it. Even A was silent and in awe. I have no doubt that our children are immensely proud of their nation.

An unfortunate situation arose while we were wandering around the cemetery. It is, of course, a solemn place. We were disturbed by 15-20 French youths (15-16 years?) who were shouting, laughing, throwing pine cones at each other and leaning and jumping on the headstones. One employee ran some of the kids off, but they all congregated elsewhere. Finally, I couldn't take it and I marched over. Seeing an angered adult made them disperse, but J came up behind me shouting at them. They left then and M walked over to one headstone where boys had been gathered laughing at the name cut into the headstone. M who has such a strong sense of justice, was overcome with emotion when he realized this soldier had died the day after Christmas, 1944. He was outraged. Having recently toured Auschwitz, M could not believe these French boys could be so ungrateful. Did they not appreciate what these men gave up to liberate France from the Nazis? No. I do not worry about his patriotism whatsoever.

The following day we headed to the middle of nowhere to see Mt. St. Michel. It is a monestery/politcal prison/castle which remains a monestery today. It is magnificant pile of rocks that protrudes literally out of the ground. It is a tremendous castle and church with a small quaint town at its base. At high tide, it becomes an island. It is the second most visited site in France behind the Eiffel Tower. We arrived quite excited to navigate the 500 plus stairs to the top. R saved the day (it was R's second trip to the site) by directing us the back way and thus avoiding a huge crowd, but not before we could have another unfortunate situation with the French youth. In the crowded entrance, we were bumped and jostled by crowds of tourists. We ended up close to some kids on a school trip (16 years? Same group?). R accidentally walked into a picture one boy was taking of his friend. Without a moment's thought, this boy took R by the shoulders and shoved him hard. Again, I was disciplining French youth who seemingly had no supervision. It marred the day which was a shame.

On Wednesday, we visited St. Therese's Basilica in Lisieux. St. Therese, The Little Flower, is my patron saint, so we stocked up on those items necessary to ensure my safe passage into heaven: holy water in a plastic bottle molded into the shape of a saintly woman. A plastic jar candle with a picture of St. Therese printed in wildly vibrant colors, a laminated picture of St Therese one could keep in her pocket (in order to remind the owner just how much God loves those who shut up and put up), and a charm or two. St. Therese was a silent sufferer. Just like me. She never complained. Just like me. Even when she didn't like people, she studied them to find the face of Jesus in their soul. Just like me. She ate food she didn't like and was completely grateful. TOTALLY like me. The similarities are uncanny. Obviously, to name me after St. Therese was a profound act by my parents. Too bad I ended up with a goofy nickname ('Are your parents hippies?' I was once asked by a neighbor.). Sadly, even in front of St. Therese's church, we ran into trouble with poorly behaved children. This time grade school kids were outside running around (nearly knocking A down) pushing over garbage cans, screaming, etc. I have never seen anything like it, not in the US or else where.

So. My thoughts on France? It is the MOST beautiful country. I SO want to love it! A French friend of ours assures me that all these children were probably just nasty Parisan kids on school trips. He tells me that everyone outside Paris is likeable. Anyway, the French butter alone may make me want to go back. And the baguettes. I won't say I'll never go back. It is just that being in France is more work than being in Italy. Bring on Tuscany.

Thursday, we arrived home at 1:30 a.m. and got M to school at 5:30 a.m. for his trip to Belgium. How many World War memorials can you take in before you want not to wake up in the morning? Ask M.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-06-04T21:44:00.003+01:00

June 4, 2008

Good morning.

I'm tapping away on my new lap top, an anniversary gift from my desperate husband (16 years of bliss, by the way...5 houses, 4 kids, 3 dogs, 2 countries, 1 cat. Our life together has the cheer and rhythm of a Peter, Paul and Mary song, don't you think?). J, a normally undemanding sort, has all but chained me to this computer, basically telling me not to get up until a book is published. God, I hope my weak bladder holds out.

So much has gone on since my last newsy email. We have had visits from my friend Devon and her darling baby, Hollis. My friend Cindy popped in as did another high school friend, Colleen, during Gold Cup week. I am still trying to recover. We managed to come home for a short time and head to Florida for sun and thrill rides on the back of my cousin Mike's Harley. Our garage roof has collapsed countless times. We got a dog. We managed to live through our first heart arresting heating bill for this big, old beautiful house of ours (hence the urgent need for book royalties). All this without so much as an email home.

So I got to thinking. Actually, I am following the advice that my dear friend, Elizabeth, has been giving me for over two years: blog. Yes. That is it. I need to blog. It makes sense for me to plop all of these stories into cyberspace and not necessarily into your inboxes, which, to be honest, makes me feel like a pest. So going forward I will write with much more frequency and less length and post my entries to a blog. This way it is a win-win for everyone: I can record our lives in greater detail (which is really what this whole thing is about: capturing this experience of living abroad) without the guilt of clogging up my loved ones' emails. You can access my blog when and if it is convenient for you. My blog address is http://englandtoprairie.blogspot.com

Add it to your favorites and tell everyone you know to read it. It would be a treat if the book that is inside me is simply a running commentary of my life and not some novel that would actually take research and perseverance to crank out.

Having said all that, I will fill you in. My parents returned home recently after a two week visit. It was so good to be with them. I sat the kids down before they arrived and begged for cooperation: Their grandparents would be here for only two weeks. Could everyone please be on their best behavior because it would be great to not have to yell at anyone in front of Maga and Bompers. Within two days every kid had committed some heinous grievance, yet somehow my parents found it all a bit charming. During their visit, they saw R ski the dry slope and play cricket (even my mother had to agree that cricket is tolerable and even pleasant with enough champagne). They held long conversations with the kids who, to my parents' delight, are grown up enough to have opinions and senses of humor. A pretty much just bossed them around. It was an especially meaningful visit for M and S who had my parents as confirmation sponsors as they made their confirmation May 4. Their confirmation was lovely in the chapel at school. The bishop of Tewkesbury presided and S was the reader. We lunched afterwards with our friends, the Spades, at the Greenway Hotel in Cheltenham, an old manor home. Posh, posh. If the weather had been kinder we no doubt would have enjoyed a few Pimms while playing crochet on the lawn which was enclosed by massive topiaries in the shapes of trains and such. So English it hurt.

So now that M and S are adults in the eyes of God we can get down to the serious business of preparing for Speech Day at Cheltenham College Senior School. It is a day of competitive picnicking and, for once, this is an arena in which I can compete (as long as I purchase all the food). I am nothing if not able to make the back of the Volvo look like a glossy magazine photo shoot. Call it a gift. So the day is as follows: chapel, followed by the awards ceremony, drinks at the houses, picnics and cricket watching. We are looking forward to the awards ceremony. Many and most students go a full five years at the school without receiving a single award. S has received FOUR (for history, religious studies, chemistry and one secretive one to be announced. M suspects it is the Biggest Brown Noser Award). Four awards is unheard of. My reaction was one of pride, awe and wonder. And by way of congratulations, I bellowed, "Man, M. It must really SUCK to be her twin!" Good thing M has a strong sense of his laid back self. The pressure could crush a weaker individual.

In the early hours of the following morning, we will drive to Portsmouth to catch the ferry to Normandy, France in order take in the WW2 history. We will duplicate parts of the school trip that R took last year including the American cemetery and hotel (As best we can guess, we have made reservations. Hard to say. The French would be much more endearing if they spoke English). We will then race back over the Channel to get M back in time to climb into a bus, headed to a ferry so he can again cross the Channel, this time destined for Belgium. He is participating in a WW1 class trip.

I will update you on our trip to France via my blog. I'll send out emails to let you know my blog has been updated and will be sure to include a daily running total of my combined butter and cream intake as well any freak friendly encounters we have with the French.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-03-10T19:13:00.004Z

February 13, 2008

Dear all,

After a year discerning, J and I decided M and

S were ready to spend some time contemplating

life's darker side. We have witnessed so much beauty

and privilege in the past two years. We wanted to

balance things out, taking advantage of the historical

treasures nearby. It was with heavy hearts that

M, S and I headed for Krakow, Poland to

tour the Nazi death camps, Auschwitz and Birkenau.

The weekend wasn't totally depressing. First of all,

it was a good laugh traveling with just the three of

us. J is a nervous traveler, so there is always a

level of underlying strain. I operate on the notion

that as long as you have plenty of time and your

passports, you may as well relax because soon you'll

board the plane and A will dump a full yogurt into

your lap. Save your stress. Not J. J spends so

much time dicking around asking questions regarding

the plane's whereabouts, what city the plane was

flying in from so he can stare intensely at the

arrival/departure board like he's watching the Cubs

play in the World Series or something, rushing us all

into the bathroom, flushing the kids out of the duty

free shops and getting in line to board WAY too early-

in defense, he admitted that he isn't always first

onto the plane. Once he was third. All while I

contently flip through my Hello! magazine. It was

with pride and more than a bit of a thrill, then, that

we were nearly last to board the plane to Poland.

We arrived in Krakow in the morning, but missed the

one scheduled city bus tour. No other option

but to take the GOLF CART tour of Krakow. So, we add

that to the list of insanely dangerous things we've

done in the name of tourism. Krakow was dirty.

Really dirty. Years and years of grime, graffiti and

communism. It looks exactly like every WW2 movie

you've ever seen. It is a young town, with a few

universities, but still it seemed a bit cheerless. I

understand that the arts are alive and well in Krakow.

Actually, my new friend, Penny told me that. I met

Penny in the Krakow airport on the way home. She

lives a block away from us. She and her husband

went to Krakow to see an opera. My new friend,

Penny, said the opera house was more beautiful than

most, including London 's (which is, apparently,

dreadful). My new friend, Penny, said that the

theaters were well taken care of under communist rule.

My new friend, Penny was rather bossy and opinionated

and I bet all of her "regular" friends say things

like, "My friend Penny says...", all the time driving

their loved ones crazy. Her husband was the silent

suffering type. Funny. J describes himself in the

same words...

The site of the old Jewish ghetto is still surrounded

by a brick wall, barbed wire and some sort of rubble,

from what I do not know. Krakow was never bombed

during the war. The old ghetto was nearly deserted

and eerie on a Saturday and, I suspect most days. We

rode by Schindler's factory, on which the movie,

Schindler's List was based. Nearby was a memorial to

all the Jews who crowded together in what was really

just a vacant lot for up to two weeks waiting for

transport to Auschwitz. On the other side of the

city, the large square, one of the largest in Europe,

in the town's center was lovely, however, we were

feeling a bit unnerved. We walked slowly back through

the city, past its massive castle and back to the

hotel, a Sheraton, where we listened to piped in

American music we don't get to hear in England and ate

American food while people watching in the lobby.

This we liked very much.

The next morning we drove through the beautiful but

depressed Polish countryside to Auschwitz and

Birkenau, the place where 1.1 million men, women and

children were put to death. Heavy, dark, emotional. A

17-18 year old boy collapsed and was taken off by

ambulance while we were there. We walked through the

first gas chamber. Saw torture chambers, mounds of

hair, shoes, brushes and kitchen wares that were

collected from the suitcases the Jews brought with

them. In Birkenau, we walked down the unloading ramp,

where the selections took place and down to the gas

chamber where nearly all of the arrivals were sent.

The remains of the gas chambers are still there. The

Germans bombed them before the camp was liberated. It

is no less haunting. We walked through a womens'

barracks. They smelled.

In spite of all the deep emotion and the unnerving hush, there was not an

oppressive energy. There are amazing stories of hope

and survival in all the death camps. One of my

favorite songs plays like background music when I

think about the determination of the survivors. Nina

Simone's old song, I Got No-I Got Life is the kind of

song you'd order up if you knew you were going to be

deserted on an island and were only allowed five items

to bring along. (If you're curious, I'd grab that

life size poster of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack

Sparrow that I keep meaning to buy and maybe a few

REALLY large gin and tonics). I love the way Nina

belts out that song, finding reasons to carry on when

there are none. It now reminds me, in a good way, of

the survivors. And, while I have had nightmares every

night since I've been to Auschwitz, (M and

S have not) I am convinced that nightmares of

this sort are good. I have walked through the remains

of evil. It should be disturbing. I also do like to

think about those who, for what ever reason, made it

out of there alive. Each of their stories are

horrific and glorious at the same time.

I never intend to go back. J will take R when

R is ready to make the trip, although, J, seeing

how affected we were isn't in a hurry. We'll be

safely tucked back into the USA before A reaches

an age to go. Nonetheless, it is our great fortune to

have that sort of history just a short plane ride

away.

With love from England,

T-Ann

2008-02-10T19:10:00.004Z

February 7, 2007

Good morning,

When J and I came to England to sort out a home and

schools, we didn't realize that you need to have a

permanent address to secure places in the good state

schools here. Without one, we really had no choice

but to send the children to private schools. And

while we knew these were fussy schools we were looking

at (I'm sure I've mentioned each school had a four

hour interview? Just a bit daunting...), we still

didn't quite understand the nature of British prep

schools. We're still learning. Thankfully, J's

company pays the hellishly expensive tuition in

exchange for asking us to cope with the National

Health Service. Or something like that.

I have written before of the shock of starting at

Cheltenham College Junior School. Now M and

S are easing their way into the senior school,

or "college", which has all the surreal qualities of

living in a film.

Here is a dialog we had at the kitchen table the other

night when S's friend, Ella, was visiting M was

dismayed that a kid on his rugby team

couldn't run faster. "Don't you think Senior Congo (I

swear that is his FIRST name) should be able to run

faster?" M asked off handedly.

"Why should he be able to run faster?" I asked.

"Because he's African." I nearly spit tea over the

kitchen table.

"Why do you think an African boy should run fast,

M? I'm guessing he isn't like those Olympian

athletes you hear of in Africa who feed their goats

and then run 10 miles to school and back each day.

He's at a boarding school. It's not like he's got

much ground to cover in the morning."

"He's loaded," Ella pipes in.

"And how do you know he's 'loaded', Ella?" I ask.

"Because he has really expensive shoes."

"Well, lots of people have really nice shoes and that

doesn't make them loaded." I say.

"I mean, REALLY expensive." (Mind you, Ella's father

drives a Bentley).

"And he has a really expensive mobile phone." S adds.

I can feel one of those teachable moments coming on.

I sit up straight, smooth out my dress like Carol Brady.

"You shouldn't be so quick to judge," I say smugly.

"You cannot judge people based on their nationality.

We are Americans and we don't sue people, right? Just

because Senior Congo (don't you just love that name?)

is African doesn't make him a quick runner and just

because people have nice shoes and mobile phones

doesn't make them loaded and besides, it shouldn't

matter how much money his family has."

"Mom." M says, completely bored by his dim

mother, "His dad is the king of some African country

and he is one of 59 kids."

"Oh," was all I cough out meekly.

M continues with an air of worldliness that only

a fourteen year old boy can pull off, "And that must

be ONE. HORNY. DAD".

This is not the only royal family at Cheltenham

College. M and S share classes with a

Saudi Arabian prince. This boy once asked S,

"You're American?! Why would you ever leave America?

I've been to America. I love America. Have you ever

heard of a place called Beverly Hills? I love Beverly

Hills..." (S's answer to Jim when he STRONGLY

suggested that S date this prince-poor J will

do anything, including marry his young daughter off in

a loveless marriage to a wealthy prince if it meant he

could retire before the age of 90 which is our current

financial plan-was that she didn't like this boy's

hair and, therefore, couldn't date him. She obviously

has a strong value system. God bless her.)

Even R is accustomed to this. While J and I were

in London last week, we saw a beautiful sports car

with Saudi plates at a hotel with lots of security

next to ours. R loves cars and when we mentioned

this to him, he didn't even look up from his homework

to say, "Yeah. VJ told me his mom was in

town."

Cheltenham College has a lovely campus with, as you

would imagine, lots of old buildings, ivy and a

surprising number of palm trees. At fourteen, they

are experiencing what Americans experience when they

go off to college at eighteen years of age. They are

completely independent. They must get themselves back

and forth to classes and around campus. They must

master time management. They have "houses", alot like

our fraternity or sorority houses, where they go when

they are not in class to study, hang out (and consume

large quantities of tea and toast) and change into

their gym uniforms (called their "games kit"). Their

days are long-until 6pm or later every evening- and

then they have hours of homework. Saturdays, the

earliest they are allowed to come home is 4pm. Often

it is much later (especially if you have Saturday

night detention until 10:30pm, with which, I am sorry

to say, we have had some experience. I won't single

out which twin collects demerits like some people

collect sea shells, but in defense, every late

assignment, illegible assignment, every tardy earns a

demerit. They add up quickly. Five demerits=Saturday

night detention. Time management/tidiness/basic self

awareness isn't this particular twin's strong suit).

Pressure abounds at this school in both academics and

sports. You pretty much have to declare what your

major at university will be by the time you are 16/17.

They have staff checking that each girl takes enough

food at lunch because anorexia is a problem. (I'm

happy to report the teachers take one look at

S's heaving plate of food and move on).

Everyone is gorgeous. Everyone, except that one

prince, has indescribably beautiful hair to the point

that even out of uniform you can spot Cheltenham

College students around town.

The Cheltenham College handbook is a small guide book

with all the rules and regulations. At the Junior

School, it is in an A to Z format. I particularly

like the letter "H" as in: Head Lice: These are a

harmless but obviously unpleasant problem. Anyone who

has them, please sit next to one of the P

children and rub heads. But my favorite, just under

Head Lice, is Helicopter: Often we have requests for

picking up children from school in helicopters.

Please give 24 hours notice."

The college's parents' handbook reads like a good

British humor novel. I don't intend to ever throw it

away. It is filled with lots of one liner, British

humor. I am particularly fond of the section entitled

"The town". The rules for going into town, are very

specific year by year. By the time they are in Upper

6th form (seniors) they are allowed into approved

pubs, however there is a strict policy of beer and/or

cider only. It states: All 6th formers returning to

their houses in the evening do so by the front door of

the private side in anticipation of a VERTICAL

conversation with their housemaster or mistress. I

love that line. The lackadaisical attitude about

children drinking in this country is worthy of another

email one day.

With love from England,

T-Ann