Poeming: Hovering

In case you thought me dead, not posting for a month, I am indeed quite alive and visiting the GrandBrits (and their parents) in England. The poetry prompt over at Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides this Wednesday was to write an "on the road" poem. This was the result.

I would be the coolest ever if I took this photo--but I didn't.

HOVERING


I lean to the left
but not too far–
enough to keep my
neighbor from
sleeping
on my shoulder
but not so far
my elbow succumbs
(again)
to the metal cart
passing by.
twisting yoga-like
to skip to the loo
(my darling)
out and back in
to my space,
it’s ten hours
on the sky-road
(again)
to see my
grandBrits—
totally
absolutely
worth it.


jle 2013

Grandma ice skates with varying degrees of success.

 While at the Eden Project here in England, all three grandchildren (ages 2, 5 and 7) and their parents decided to try out the ice skating rink. Grandma Julie (me) thought she'd regret not trying it herself, since she used to love ice skating as a child, and what could be more fun than joining the grandBrits?

If you can pretend I'm not holding onto the railing I look quite impressive, don't I.
To the left side of the photo Shawn is showing Euan the basics of ice skating,
and to the right you can see Jon helping Ellie get used to the ice.

Elias spent a fair amount of time dangling from Jon like a Christmas ornament on a tree.

Ellie, almost 3, amazed us all by having pretty good
balance on her cute little strap-on 2 bladed ice skates.

Euan loved it, spending most of his time skating without help,
falling down and popping right back up to skate some more.

Grandma? Well, she was quite good at falling down--one time even considering
making a snow angel while laying flat on her back on the ice--but not so good
at the popping back up....

no, for Grandma, getting back up "takes a village."

Okay, so a couple of those falls caused a very bruised and swollen
left hand, and led to a visit to the First Aid booth for an ice pack
held to her hand by gauze wrappings. Plus she now has
an official Incident Report filed in England.

Notice the lovely shade of purple on the left hand.

A great time was had by all. And while I may have come away with bruises on my hand, knees, elbows, and pride, I came away without a single regret.

;-)

Cornwall wanderings.

across the road from Shawn and Jon's place

I am in the English countryside, Somerset County, specifically. But even in such beautiful surroundings, the locals want to go "on holiday." Sounds so much more festive than "on vacation," doesn't it?

So they find other beautiful places to go, like this:

Cornish coast

More on this later. For now, simply gaze upon the beauty. You see, yesterday we went ice skating while on holiday, and I'm really really sore and tired. ;-)

Faces.

The face of too much shopping.

Of goofy faces...

and happy faces.

The face of being played out...

and of girl-play...

and total cuteness.

The face of frustration...

of exploration...

and autumn leaves...

and leaf-play.

The faces of family.

Not my cup of tea.

Tea is a big thing here in England. i've known since i was a little girl that tea is very English and queenly, pinkies held high, full of mannerlyness and whatnot. And aren't tea parties pretty much the symbol of childhood imagination?

Tea is no imaginary happening here in the damp U.K. And tea has rules. To do tea properly there should be a teaPOT, not just a cup. Aforementioned teapot should be heated before making the tea, milk should go in the cup at a certain point... It's not simply a drink, it's an event. And there must be biscuits. And how much do i love a place where a "biscuit" is a cookie!

The weather is overwhelmingly conducive to the idea of a warming beverage. The boiler man comes in from the average gale force wind and rain to fix your boiler, and you offer him a nice hot cup of tea with biscuits. The moving men carrying boxes in the rain are offered tea. It is a polite and thoughtful country that way.

During this visit to England the house's boiler went out. Now, a boiler going out in winter England is like the time we rented a convertible in mid-summer Las Vegas--a bad idea. In England, the boiler is the source of not only hot water for bathing and dishwashing, but heat for the radiators. So, no boiler, no heat. No heat in this passage of autumn to winter in England? A bad idea gone tragic.

So the boiler guy comes in from one of the more thoroughly nasty days i've seen--freezing cold rain coming sideways, trees blowing, wind howling. He's covered in mud from waist to toes from his previous job.

"It's been quite a day!" he greets me cheerfully, wiping his feet. i am wearing two shirts, two sweaters, jeans, a scarf, two pairs of socks and am clutching a blanket around me.

Daughter Shawn says to her English hubby that she's going to offer the boiler man a cup of tea. Jon says, "Let me make the tea." Apparently there is some discussion in this household over what constitutes the proper cup of tea. Shawn has had a bad experience with tea-making for her fully British husband. He explains.

"When I have tea, I want it strong. And you should never use full fat milk, that's too creamy. You should taste the tea." i flashed back to a memory of my first cup of tea at his parents' house when we came to meet them years ago. His grandmother offered us tea and after pouring asked if we cared for milk in it.

"Oh no," i casually waved the idea away, "i usually drink it black," i smiled at her. One sip and i understood the offer. A serious cup of English tea peals the taste buds right off your tongue.

For Shawn and i, a cup of tea is sweet comfort. Creamy with milk, sweetened with honey, warm and soothing. i guess that for any proper Englishman or woman, if you come away with taste buds and without extra hair on your chest, you haven't had a proper cup of tea.

A very cool gift.

i'm quite sure Ellie decided to hold off on walking until Grandma Julie arrived from America. On her first birthday, November 7, she decided it was time. Lucky, lucky Grandma!

Those sturdy English.

i arrived today in England.

It just so happened to be the day they're celebrating Guy Fawkes day and Bonfire night. Having been told "layers, think lots of layers," i put on 2 shirts and a sweatshirt under my coat, and 2 pairs of socks under my new warm boots. i topped the whole ensemble with my recently purchased scarf, gloves, and cute hat. If not prepared, i was at least adorable.

We drove tthe 3 kids to a friend's house to park, then several families set off in the pitch black muddy evening for the field where the celebration would take place. i was handed an umbrella and fell into step behind numerous strollers with babies and rain baggies over them, and countless more small school children in wellies (rubber boots) and raincoats. The cloud of well covered adults and children moved off in a large gnat-like cloud to the field. The cloud grew larger as excited children and parents gravitated toward the rope separating us from the huge bonfire in the middle of the field.

Did i mention the whole "pitch black" thing? Here were families upon families, chatting and playing and standing bundled in the freezing rain like they were having a tea party. In the darkness, everyone looked the same to me--tall and short dark bodies with vaguely seen faces above, cheerfully saying "hello" to me as i was introduced.

Normal, it was all perfectly normal to these sturdy English. Rain, blowing like ice needles into your face? Normal. Slogging along a country road through muddy piles of leaves in the pitch black? Normal. Fireworks in the rain? All normal. Me? i kept wrapping and wrapping my scarf around my neck and wishing for a third pair of socks under my new boots.

i looked around at the crowd and asked Jon, my son-in-law, "how many people do you think are here?" He said, "Oh, probably a hundred, hundred-fifty." He laughed and said, "You'd probably have a thousand!" (i do after all, live in a populated area in California.) i said, "Oh no-we would have totally called it on account of rain!"

A good time was had by all, and on the bright side, i think i will only lose the one toe to frostbite.

Here's a fun link to explain the Guy Fawkes celebration.

i'll wait for daylight to get photos of the grandBrits to post.

NEW GRANDBRITS PHOTOS!!

The lovely Brits below are Ellie, age 7 months; Euan, age 3 1/2; Elias, 5 years; and one more adorable Ellie for good measure. ;-)

(Some) impulse control.

Written on Monday--

As i sit in my lovely reclining seat in the First Class cabin of a United Airlines flight home from England, i’m pondering the mysteries of self-discipline and impulse control. And yes, you read that right—First Class. There are some perks to a husband who has spent the last 32 years weathering the stormy seas (skies?) of the airline industry.

Why, you ask, am i pondering impulse control at the end of a lovely month spent with my daughter in England? Possibly because i am relieved i can still wear the same pants i wore on the flight to England, having spent the past four weeks being fed by my son-in-law who loves to cook.

Yes, i did go to be with my daughter so that i could help her in the time surrounding the birth of her third child. And yes, this could have included cooking, i realize, and i went prepared to do that if needed. But i am not a cook—i cook because my family should be fed, and nobody has starved on my watch. i enjoy reading cookbooks and watching others who love to cook on Food Network. But cook myself? Not such a fan. Now, i do have a really nice Bosch range, and some very cool Calphalon pans hanging from a ceiling rack, so my kitchen gives the impression of a person happily sautéing and stirring and banging about with pots. But again, not a huge fan. i’d rather bake cookies. Or knit.

All that to say, i have so thoroughly enjoyed being cooked for that my eating choices have been limited simply by being too full to eat another bite. Coq au vin, lamb roast with rosemary stuffing, thick, creamy soups of winter squashes, or lamb stew. And my daughter had previously been accused (by me!) of “cooking by color” (“well, if spaghetti sauce is red, surely chili powder being red will also go..." That meal, cooked in her college days, cleared the family’s sinuses for a week.) But this trip she made us a salmon pie with a dill sauce and creamy mashed potatoes, clearing herself of all past cooking judgements. (i mean, it has been a decade.)

i also love the whole English tea and biscuits concept. It’s a lovely thing to take a break in the afternoon for a milky cup of tea and assorted dippable biscuits (cookies in the U.S.) Why do i love their biscuits more than the ones in the States? i don’t know. Maybe it’s just the fact that i’m on vacation in a foreign land and feel it’s okay to enjoy them. Maybe it’s because they have buttery, crispy cookies of every description—“digestives,” a basic vanilla type cookie, but topped in dark or milk chocolate, or caramel and chocolate, and the ever famous Hob Nobs, a more grainy, crunchy type of the same thing, or a thin crisp wafer with fruity bits in them, or delightfully dunkable raspberry and cream filled sandwich cookies…the possibilities are endless! The English son-in-law says these remind him of church social times and children’s snacks, but call me a child, i love ‘em!

What i’ve been pondering is my choice of “living to eat” rather than “eating to live,” that seems to symbolize my lack of self-discipline. The thing is, i do have impulse control—many many times i wanted to run my hand across the stubbly head of the passenger in front of me on the nearly four hour bus ride to Heathrow Airport in London, BUT I DIDN’T. And when standing in line at the grocery store behind a lady with the shoulder length gray hair that is probably what mine would look like if i let it go to its natural state, i wanted to ask to drape it over my head and take a picture so i could see what i might look like should i give up on the whole hair-dying annoyance. BUT I DIDN’T.

And now, i’m sitting in United First Class, home of the many-course meal—several starters, salad and bread, entrées that include filet mignon and halibut with lobster sauce, side dishes, and if there is a single bit of space left in your tummy, the possibility of an ice cream sundae with chocolate sauce or the cheese and fruit course. Now, i know for the people who have paid dearly for the privilege of excess this is expected. But for me? i just love to be waited on, i freely admit it! If we were paying full price for our tickets we would be in the back of the plane by the toilets, eating boxed lunches of questionable freshness.

i’m thinking that, since this is Thanksgiving week, and the eldest child (who also loves to cook) will have that family meal under control, if i can manage to squeak by without cooking until Thursday and then take home leftovers, i should be able to extend this non-cooking gig for another week.

The next month, i fear, rather than getting my exercise by trying to keep up the housekeeping for a household with two young boys and a baby, and having my meals provided pleasantly and with no work on my part—i will gladly do dishes by hand twelve times a day if i don’t have to cook!—i will need to live on my elliptical and eat a steady diet of steamed vegetables. There will be no drizzle of cream on my morning porridge, and no clotted cream for my non-existent scones.

*Sigh.*

Pardon me now, i have finished my Haagen Dazs ice cream, and am preparing to lay my First Class Suite flat so i can cuddle up under the quilted blanket provided and take a nap. Ah, the life of a jet-setter.

Calling it what it is.

This sign startles me every time i see it here in England-- "TOILET." No "RESTROOM" here. i mean, how much resting really goes on in those places? Personally when i enter a public restroom, my goal is to leave as quickly as i am able, what with the general ambient scent of those places. Here, they call it like they see it: Do you need to use a toilet? Look for the sign, because it will state there is a toilet behind this door. If in a restaurant and struck with a need, one asks for the "loo" or the "toilet." Ask where the bathroom is, or the restroom, and you will get a puzzled look. Let's call it what it is, a toilet.

And how many of us have had a "shot" or an "injection"? Not that the word "shot" sounds all that pleasant, but isn't a "jab" more realistic? "Now you'll feel a tiny pinch," they say. "This might sting a little," they say. Often they say, "You won't even feel this." They lie. It's a JAB. Call it what it is.

Both these signs were spotted in Jon's offices where he is a General Practitioner. Gotta love these guys, they not only have cool accents, they call it what it is.

The sound of silence...

i was checking my email, the sounds of Peppa Pig playing in the background. Little Euan loves Peppa Pig, and if you listen to the characters on the website, you'll hear how the children's voices sound here with their lovely little accents. :-)

Anyway, Euan was stretched out on the couch watching a Peppa dvd, enjoying his juice. He's a pretty quiet guy most of the time, going to Mummy off and on for a cuddle, asking the occasional question. When Elias is home, it's full speed ahead. Euan of course wants to be everything big brother is, do everything big brother does, and they are constant busy-ness together. While Elias is at school it's a different house altogether--not better, but definitely quieter.

All that to say--i was checking my email, sitting on the floor of the living room with my back up against a chair. All was quiet except for the sounds of Peppa. With just Euan home, this isn't an unusual sound, that of *quiet*. After some time i looked over at Euan, and this is what i saw:

...his hand still clutching his now empty juice drink, completely and absolutely surrendered to a parent's best friend, "Sleep." Is there anything sweeter than the face of a sleeping child? Maybe the sound of their laughter, but who could not love this sight?

i was telling Shawn that the way i see her children, at least in the American description of them, would be: Elias could be President. He's inquisitive, he's an absolute bulldog about something he wants, he's on the move and unstoppable. Euan, on the other hand--he would be the one who wants to facilitate the success of his big brother. "That was a great speech! You look great in that suit. Can I get you a cup of tea?" The loving, adoring younger brother.

i can't wait to see what the next child will be like! These children are amazing, and brilliant, and adorable, each their own unique person. i love this about both sets of grandkids, Candie's and Shawn's, they've been allowed to show their individual personalities. In some cases, be it fortunate or unfortunate, they've developed a bit of their parents' sense of humor. (Senses of humor? Sense of humors? Whatever.) i don't know if it's a matter of the childraising styles of today, or if it's just what happens when parents follow a more intuitive style of parenting, but i love that this present generation of little people is able to learn respect and manners while still being allowed to be their own inquisitive/mellow/busy/gentle/funny self.

For instance, that little cutie Elias, my 4 year old grandBrit--i was knitting on the baby blanket project i brought with me to finish for the new baby. Every time for the first few days he would see me knitting and say, "Grandma Julie--nice baby blankie," and give me his little grin. i love 4 year old humor. Because of it we've pretended to suck up the furniture in the vacuum, and shop the aisles of the grocery store with the car. But speaking of the blanket, i've now finished it!! Here's a photo--

You can't really tell from this photo, but it's lime green, blue and a purple-ish color. You can guess from this that i figured the new baby would likely be another boy, BUT, as Plan B, in the case of a girl, i have a long pink yarn chain to weave in and out of the edging of the blanket. And Wednesday morning, we shall see: pink, or no pink?

3 Days till we know!!!

In just three days exactly we will find out if Shawn's baby is a boy or a girl--do i need to add the pink to the baby blanket i'm knitting or not? Will there be another boy in the household to play rough and tumble with his big brothers, or will a little sister be kicking their butts?

It's 9:45 a.m. Sunday in this part of the world. In California where i normally spend my days it's 1:45 a.m. But for both of us, come Wednesday exactly this same time of day, a new baby will join the outside world. So if you too are curious to know, watch this space. ;-)

Clever monkey.

The day before, we had been playing with Play Doh. Elias and i were rolling snakes of dough and i was coiling them into a pot. The next day the boys were playing with Play Doh at the kitchen table while Shawn and i were in the front room. This is what Elias did! A big, fat coiled pot. i was duly impressed.

Today i went with Shawn to drop Elias at school--oh my goodness, that tiny 4 year old wearing his little man trousers and school sweater, too cute!
And that's a "wellie" planter behind him.

Rainy Sunday in Trull.

Today i went to the Parish Church of All Saints, Trull, where Shawn and family have been attending for about 2 years now. It's a Church of England Anglican church, what to me is a properly English looking church. ;-) You know, brick, stone, graves, castle-y bits at the top. As we arrived, an overwhelming onslaught of church bells was ringing. i looked at Jon and said, "i wonder if this is what cacophony means," and made a mental note to look the word up. i just did, and it means "a mix of discordant sounds; dissonance," which i'm not sure quite fits. But the thesaurus said "clamor" and "din." That fit--i mean, it wasn't exactly discordant ("disharmonious") but it sure was a DIN ("a loud commotion.") Bells and bells upon bells, all ringing at once!
This drawing on a wall in the church was of the sanctuary--maybe the architect's drawing? Anyway, it gives an idea of the stone arches, and carved (but incredibly uncomfortable!) pews. Straight backed, flat and shallow seats, one is left to perch on the edge like a bird on a windowsill. But, in all fairness, the building has beginnings in the 13th century, with additions over time. To see more photos and information about their church, follow this link. It's pretty interesting.

i smiled seeing how the teen girls at the front playing the flute and violin were so much the same as i would see at home: a little giggly nervous, nudging each other, and secretly proud to be performing up front.

Their vicar, Adrian Youings, is an approachable, kind humored man, his wife the same, very welcoming. Shawn and Jon have enjoyed their friendship along with that of some others in the church. After a long couple of years without this type of church family they've got a place to belong, and oh how they've enjoyed it! So far the friends i've met have been what i'd call "real"--no illusions of grandeur, no pomposity, just people living out Christ's message of loving others, even on a hard day.

i think that's what i look for in people, and in a church: that approachable-ness that says i don't have to be anything special, just me, to be accepted and loved. Not brilliant, or talented, or beautiful, or have really great hair that doesn't turn into a big puff in the drizzle. It was a comfortable place to be, emotionally as well as physically. They have real weather in England, as opposed to the constant mildness of the SF Bay Area. The parishioners dressed comfortably and practically. For heaven's sake, when the rain is coming in sideways on a rainy Sunday in Trull, rubber boots (i mean "wellies") just make good sense.

Saturday in Bridgewater.

Today we had a family morning at my son-in-law's work. He's a doctor in a practice with four other doctors. It's been a while since some things have been done--i mean, they've been doing their doctor-ly work, looking in ears and throats and wherever doctors are prone to look. But the building is looking somewhat tired and old, so he and the others want to give it a little lift--a new hairdo and a manicure at least.

They are part of the NHS--National Health Services, i think it stands for. Everyone is taxed which pays for their medical needs. It's not a perfect system, but neither is the American one. Unfortunately, what that means is they don't have the Kaiser-like money to spend on cool buildings and giant art for the walls, but they want to do what they can. If this means the doctor takes in his drill on a weekend to rehang the toilet paper holder, well, that's what we do, then!

We did a variety of fun little things--brought back the wood from beneath the layers of hand grime that had built up on the beautiful stairway handrail, scrubbed the steps themselves, covered some bulletin boards in fabric, sifted the assortment of gossip magazines and home and gardening magazines into a manageable amount. Sadly, there were probably two men's magazines in the whole bunch, making those an easy choice to keep.

The two little grandBrits did a great job of keeping themselves happy and busy, playing with the child toys in the waiting room, watching Curious George on grandma's laptop, checking up on mummy and daddy.

And so the process of brightening begins. Maybe Shawn will have this baby soon and i won't need to scrub any more stair treads.

The properly English language.

Here under the beautiful gray skies of Somerset County, England, "English" is not "English" as we in the States learned it in Miss McCall's high school English class.

Tersie at The Road to Total Growth--Body Mind and Spirit spoke about Words the other day. So, being here in The Land of True English, i've been noticing some of the different words these Englishmen (and women) use.

For instance:

Courgettes: We had these in our stew. It's apparently the French word for the squash we at home call zucchini. It's pronounced with the "g" sounding rather like the Z in ZaZa Gabor, or the "j" in au ju. Now, i think "zucchini" is a pretty cool word all on its own, but how much cooler is "courgettes"? "Dahling, pahss the courgettes..."

Porridge: Here in the land of queens and princes, they do not eat oatmeal, they eat "porridge," or "porridge oats." You know, like the old "pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the pot, nine days old," but that one is porridge made of peas cooked in milk. For some silly reason, "porridge" brought up visions of Oliver Twist to me, small children in poorhouses and such. But perhaps i confuse "porridge" and "gruel." i had the above pictured porridge this morning, and it was quite good!

Orientated: Here in England, a person does not get oriented to the new time schedule, he gets "orientated." Here it takes me a good week to get "orientated" to being awake when at home i would be asleep! But then, even when i'm at home i have a hard time being awake when i should be.

Wonky: "Mummy, the leg on this stool is a bit wonky," Elias said. i love that word! i had heard it on British home decorating shows, and i admit to having used it occasionally myself. It rolls off the tongue, say it with me, "Wonky." See?

Swede: At home we call these rutabagas. i have yet to taste one under either name, but Elias and i had a good game of "roll the swede" at the kitchen table yesterday. It's a very resilient vegetable. Oh, that's another thing--

Veg: When at home i sit and watch an old movie and drink a cup of hot chocolate, i would say that i'm going to "veg" a while, but i eat "vegetables." Here in England, you eat your "veg," (rhymes with "hedge") of which the above-mentioned "swede" and "courgettes" are a part.

Also there's the spelling--in the States we use the letter "z" in words like "organize" and "pressurize" but in England, an "s" takes the place of the "z," as in "organise." Oh, and "pressurised" is not necessarily a word for a spray can under pressure, it's also a state of being: "I'm feel pressurised," where we would say "I'm feeling pressured."

Pulse: A "pulse" isn't just something you feel to see if you're going to pass out after exercising, it's a common word for things like lentils, thus, there is a food category of "beans and pulse."

And who doesn't love the pronunciation? Two year olds and four year olds who say, "cah-stle" and "I cah-n't" with the "aw" sound instead of the boring American "a" of "cat," and who call for their "mum."

But saving my favorite for last:

Torch: i hear the word "torch" and think Frankenstein (or my favorite, Gene Wilder and Young Frankenstein) and the crowd of villagers storming the castle with big flaming torches, intent on killing Frankenstein's monster. In my mind, a child with a torch sounds like a recipe for disaster, here, it's a flashlight, as in, "it's dark outside, do you want to take a torch?"

Words are definitely fun!

Cheeky Monkey ;-)

Here in England, they use the phrase "cheeky monkey" for children, and today i had a great example of why--

i've been saying to Elias, age 4, "how many times should grandma have to ask you?" --to obey, to stop, etc.--the assumed answer being "Just one," reinforced by my one raised finger.

Today he was sticking stickers on my, um "lady bumps." i asked him to stop a few times, then said, "Elias, how many times should grandma have to ask you?" He did a sly little grin up into my face and answered innocently, "two?"

Cheeky monkey! i've gotta admire his style, though. ;-)

Things to do on a sunny day in England.

Shawn is such a good "mum." Even at 8 1/2 months pregnant, she has creative and fun projects going. Tuesday she looked up paper boats on the internet and she and i made some for her boys and a friend's daughter. (That first one was tricky, but it went much better after that!) We drove to a park in nearby Dunster where there is a nicely fenced playground with swings and slides and cool stuff to play on. Her friend and daughter joined us to play for a while. i thought my nose and fingers might just fall off, but the rest of them all seemed quite happy. Shawn had them sit at a picnic table and put stickers on their boats, then off to the creek.

Shawn had put strings on the boats so the children could get them back, so they floated and pulled them back until the boats were nothing but soggy paper. Then they each had one to let go, as did we adults. And in beautiful Somerset County, England, there's beauty all around!

Keeper of the Main Event.

i just had to include a picture of the amazingly basketball-like belly on Shawn. And to think the baby has almost 3 weeks left before the due date!

Day in Taunton.

Euan enjoyed the ride into town. (i'm always in favor of a nap!)

We shopped then had lunch outside...

...under a beautiful fall tree

and visited a big bear outside a shop (it was so big it made Elias look tiny!)

When we got home we played with the new Play Doh we bought in town--

How does Shawn look with facial dough?


We all slept pretty well!