Lord of the Manor and That Wheat is Dangerous

The Lord of the Manor – Ted Barclay

As I mentioned in the last post, we were invited, along with Ted Barclay, to dinner at Jo and Woody's house. Ted's family, which spans generations in this area, owns significant tracts (2000 acres) of farmland. In rubbing elbows with the local aristocracy, I got a sense of one of the unique characters of British high society. Ted attended Eton and then Oxford. By appearances, however, you would not necessarily know that he was part of the elite. His hair could use styling but from what I saw at the cricket grounds, he’s not alone. He had on a well-worn shirt and bright green chino trousers, also well-worn. He talked here and there about his ancestry. (I can’t recite the details as it would have been rude of me to take notes and to ask him to repeat facts.)

After Woody asked him about his farming, the price of wheat and how he was faring – he was crying poverty - the conversation took a dark turn to local criminal history, initiated because of a recent arraignment in a local murder. We then heard about other gruesome murders in the area: someone who fed his wife to the pigs, people hanged without a trial (albeit in 1848, according to Ted), and other strange townspeople. It turns out that our little villages (The Pelhams) are more dangerous, per capita, than London or New York. Now I know why Sarah was surprised I didn’t lock the door of the house in Northampton at night.

After hearing these stories about twisted townspeople, I started to feel like I was in an episode of Scooby Doo and Thelma would soon reveal that Ted was responsible for some of these murders to scare people away from his inheritance. How’s that for a literary reference? I guess, to be more literary, you could say he has certain Dickensian qualities. Uriah Heep, maybe?

Ted has an encyclopedic memory about townspeople, local events, wars, and English history but the validity of what he remembers is highly questionable.

He told a story about military strategy with an aside about Hannibal marching elephants across the Alps. Then later in the conversation, Hannibal and his elephants appeared again for another purpose. You see, 2000 years ago, Hannibal brought elephants across the Alps. (True.) How did he do it? There was no snow. 1000 years ago people were farming in Greenland. How? There was no ice in Greenland. The glaciers had receded. You see, there are natural, or normal, fluctuations in the earth’s temperature. According to Ted, all of our pollution is not good for the planet but is not responsible for global warming. At the end there, he hedged his bets. (For more on Greenland being green, see: http://www.skepticalscience.com/greenland-used-to-be-green.htm)

Lastly, Lord Barclay on British-US relations: Why does Obama keep “England at his knee”? England has information on Obama’s father being a terrorist which must be supresessed. I was afraid he was going to say something about Obama’s citizenship. I gave him Bill O’Reilly’s email address.

Okay, enough about Ted. He’s actually a sweet guy (nice of me to say now, huh?) but a bit daft. He lets the kids in the village swim in his pool and he is generous in helping with village events.

The Reaper. I realize that because the roads are so narrow, everyone who drives here must have raised blood pressure. Lorries (trucks) barrel down the country roads, trimming hedges along the way and cutting corners with disregard for others sharing the road. Yesterday, Sarah and I were driving into Bishop’s Stortford (say that name five times fast). I mentioned in an earlier post that they are haying the fields periodically this summer. A huge tractor forced us off onto the shoulder which here means onto someone’s banked lawn. But worse, the tractor was pulling a reaper (almost a grim reaper) wider than the tractor and sticking out into the oncoming lane. We saw the blades heading for our windshield (windscreen here) so I ran the car further up the bank till we were tilted at about 30 degrees. Sarah’s mouth was running a blue streak, this time not at my driving, but at the terrible, frantic, and careless rush the farmers are in to get the fields harvested when the crops are grown and the weather is good.

We survived, luckily, and are now heading for a two-week vacation in the states (where we can drive on the right side of the wide roads). Most likely I won’t be keeping the blog going during that time. The two dedicated readers – Hello? Is this mic on? – will be able to resume their summer reading. Actually, it's been nice to hear from people who've been reading. Thanks for the encouragement.

'Til next time, be well.

Wicked, wickets and wheat

Wicked…

Last week, Ron and Kate, two friends from graduate school, were in town. Kate grew up in Wales so they came back from Singapore, where they teach in the American School, to visit family. We were able to get together twice, once in Windsor and then again to see “Wicked” at the Apollo Victoria. In Boston terms, the play was not wicked. I’d have preferred Alice in Wonderland at James’s school. Seeing Kate and Ron and their two daughters was great, as we quickly resumed our warm friendship from 13 years ago.

wickets, as in cricket,…

This past weekend, Sarah, who works in London, and I took in some of the city since she had to work on Saturday morning. We took the Thames Clipper - a combination tourist and commuter boat – from Greenwich to Embankment (near Parliament). We had some lunch, hastily took in an exhibit at the Southbank Centre, saw a play (Avenue Q) and had dinner with Phil and Kate. Phil is a partner in Sarah’s practice and they have known each other from back in their post-medical school training days. Kate is also a doctor. She is what they call a renal consultant. She consults with kidneys. Actually, she is, in American terms, a kidney specialist.

We stayed over at Phil and Kate’s and, for breakfast, had the English version of a bagel. It was smaller than an H & H bagel but surprisingly similar in consistency and taste. I had mentioned to Phil that I wanted to see an exhibit held at the Lord’s Cricket Grounds, written up in the NY Times, comparing cricket to baseball. Little did I know that Phil has been a member of Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC), site of Lord’s Cricket Grounds, for over twenty years. After breakfast, Phil, Ralph (their son) and I took off for a cricket match at Lord’s Cricket Grounds, the oldest site for cricket in the world. It was clear across London so Phil served as tour guide for the drive, while also navigating traffic that easily surpasses New York’s. At Lord’s, Phil was a gracious host and explained the game while we witnessed a county match between Middlesex and Yorkshire. The spectators were so civilized, politely clapping at good fielding plays and batters’ hitting accomplishments. We drank Pimm’s, Britain’s quintessential quaff, and it wasn’t half bad. Something like iced tea, but carbonated, more fruity, and with a little kick. Apparently it is common to the occasion. But the most important message for the day was the motto of the MCC: Play hard, play fair. Who can argue with that?

If you want to read a history of Lord’s Cricket Grounds at Marylebone Cricket Club, check out: http://www.lords.org/history/mcc-history/

and wheat

I learned that England is 75% farmland. Here, in the English countryside, as Woody Allen said about Russia in Love and Death, “Wheat... lots of wheat... fields of wheat... a tremendous amount of wheat...” Actually the crops are rotated between wheat, hay, and rape (as in rape seed oil). In this area (and I’m not sure what “this area” encompasses yet), Sarah informs me, the farmland is owned by Ted Barclay, hence the title “Sir” or “Lordship”, as mentioned in an earlier post. I’ll tell you more about him after tonight. He is deigning to have dinner with us at Jo and Woody’s house, upon Jo’s invitation since Ted’s wife is out of town for a while. Since he is landed gentry, I thought it would be topical to tell him my version of "The Aristocrats."

Home

I remember the sound of the WCBS news ticker on the radio next to the stove when I was growing up. Typically, the news went on when my father got home from work and my mother was preparing dinner in the kitchen. (Sounds terribly suburban and homey.) The news announcers came on – curiously all with alliterative names (Ed Engels, Pat Parsons, Harvey Hauptman – nod to my brother Harvey for remembering that last one) and the news seemed to change the levity of the afternoon to the gravity of the evening.

In the weeks before I left the states, I had anticipatory nostalgia when I heard the theme music to NPR shows like Morning Edition, All Things Considered, Fresh Air. (NPR has its own alliterated announcer, Carl Kassel). I commented to Sarah that England would begin to feel like home to me when I learned the schedule of BBC Radio 4 and the theme music stirred up that same sentiment. Sarah, in her sweet way, had Radio 4 streaming on her computer the next morning in the kitchen when I came down to breakfast. Yesterday we bought a stereo for the kitchen to lend permanence to the ritual.

Radio 4 has great shows and is the guide to politics, culture and life here. I’m beginning to gain some familiarity with the announcers. It is, according to Sarah, more even-handed than NPR, though she guesses that the staff is probably Guardian (a left-leaning newspaper) readers. Speaking of papers, there does not seem to be an analog to the NY Times as a paper of record. There are papers across the spectrum, with none holding the mantel as premier. Sarah also ordered a subscription of The New Yorker in advance of my arrival. She was surprised that it came every week and wondered who had time to read all those long articles. In Northampton, she had noted my nightstand, coffee table and bathroom teeming with old New Yorkers. She said that it takes a steady effort to not let the magazine clutter up the whole house. I took issue with her calling it clutter.

As I continue to adjust and settle in to my new environs, I’m adopting new media, and holding onto some old media, to create a sense of home. Next I will have to find some “home” teams in football, rugby and darts(?).

Alice in Wonderland, OMG and Bureaucracies

The entire student body of James’s school, the Furneux Pelham School, put on the musical, Alice in Wonderland. James, Sarah and I watched it a few weeks back on DVD. Not Tim Burton’s version but a more conventional one. After seeing this production by primary school students, the meaning of the story still puzzles me. But the singing was wonderful, with some songs set to a sweet, jazzy music. Unsurprisingly, we sat in the first row. Sarah has never been late for a plane, bus, train or one of James’s performances. I was really digging the music, bopping along, laughing loudly at little buts of humor (and most of you have heard my laugh) so I probably came across as the boisterous American who makes a spectacle of himself.

James was a teardrop, for those of you who remember the story, as was neighbour Tommy. Amy, Tom’s older sister, was both the Two of Hearts and the Cook on alternate nights. Ben, another neighbour, was the Caterpillar. I’d have to say that the Madhatter gave a masterful performance only upstaged by the Queen of Hearts. “Off with his head” is now the recited punishment when James doesn’t finish his vegetables. As a side note, I didn't notice that a new, second Alice assumed the role midway through the show. I thought the original "actress" got tired and developed a lisp.

Footnote: Greg reminded me that I missed an opportunity to comment on "Alice in Wonderland." He thought I should do David Sedaris-style critique of the primary school play. Sedaris commented on a children's Christmas pageant, "Tommy Smith, who played Joseph, delivered a wooden, uninspired interpretation of Mary's husband...."

Separation of church and state. James’s school is a state school (i.e. public school for you Americans) under the aegis of the Church of England. No separation of church and state, here, unlike the US constitutionally-mandated separation in schools and elsewhere. This issue is continually debated and challenged in the states but I had taken for granted the general principle. James has a class in religious education (RE) as part of the curriculum. They say prayers and grace and sing hymns. I’ve decided that I am going to offer myself as a guest lecturer in his RE class on keeping kosher (see BLT and milkshake in earlier entry). Do note that not all state schools are Church of England.

Now I understand why Sarah has chided me for saying “Oh my god” in front of James. He has started copying some of my American expressions and “OMG” doesn’t go over too well in school. I’m not sure about “Holy Cow” (which I picked up from Phil Rizzuto).

Shorts weather. Brits won’t wear a jumper (a sweater or fleece for Americans) or admit that it is a bit nippy. When I say Brits, I mean Sarah, but from what I’ve heard about beach expeditions with wind breaks and wet weather gear, I think it’s fair to generalize. I go to the bus stop in the morning to put James on the bus and I’m the only one wearing a fleece. It’s “summer”, after all.

Employment. I am slowly unraveling the mystery known as the educational bureaucracy. I have to have my educational credentials, including high school, evaluated. The agency that handles that then issues a comparative document. I can use that document to secure my status as an Overseas Trained Teacher. All to work in the understaffed state education system.

Next chapter, the immigration system.

Thunder bugs

Thunder bugs. No one warned me about Thunder bugs, a nasty insect, before I set off for England. They can pick up babies in their beaks (anyone get the reference?). Actually, they are the equivalent of the black flies that you would find in New Hampshire or Maine (also Vermont?) but one-tenth the size. Tiny, little pesky things. There’re a few on my screen right now. Sarah’s says that they were stirred up because they are haying the fields (or whatever the terminology is. (I’m not an English farmer). Something to know about Sarah, she will state a theory with confidence, passing it off as fact. Not something I would ever do.

Walking in the countryside. On Thursday, Sarah and I took a walk around the local roads, fields and through the church graveyard. We met up with some pigs in an old orchard. Sarah thought they were cute but she’s not Jewish. “Tref” (Yiddish for non-kosher), I said. Recounting our walk over dinner with some friends, I explained that in reformed Judaism, bacon is kosher but ham is not. A BLT with a chocolate milkshake is kosher but ham on white bread with mayo is not. They seemed confused, but with time, I’m convinced these folks will have a better understanding of Jewish culture, customs and practices.

Crisps (ideal for poker): For lunch, for the assembled boys for James’s birthday party, Sarah bought a World Cup mixed set of crisps. Get a load of this collection of international flavors: American Cheeseburger, French Garlic Baguette, and the piece de resistance, English Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding. I don’t know how they managed to squeeze the beef and pudding into one little bag of crisps.

Strange custom. Saturday was James’s true birthday party at the Woburn Safari Park. Man, the wild animals! (See the picture above.) Back at the house, at the end of the party, the birthday cake is brought out, some singing, the child blows out the candles, the cake is cut and then individual pieces are wrapped in napkins and put into the party bags to be brought home. Party over. Thanks for coming. Ta ta…Huh? Okay, it’s not the most unusual custom but it’s been slow here so the material is a little thin.

Backing up a bit, the adult supervision at the park for the birthday party was Louise (Sarah's friend visiting from Australia, Jonathan (Sarah’s ex.), Sarah and me. It all went well and most importantly, James seemed comfortable having us all there.

Sarah and I are getting along smashingly – I broke a vase of hers in an argument. Just kidding. Each day we are able to relax more and more into our life together. Of course, I'm not working yet so I'm pretty darn relaxed to start with.

Master James's Birthday

Today is James’s seventh birthday. He woke up to birthday cards and presents. An intimate party follows this afternoon with the trip to the safari park on Saturday. James’s birthday cakes are monkey faces in keeping with the safari park theme. The lion is for Kai, son of Louise, who is visiting from Australia. (See pictures.) Not to dis Sarah but the monkeys do resemble minstrels, which wouldn’t go over too well in the states. That’s the sort of thing that would kick off a row on Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Continuing with my mundane weather reports, today was the first day of rain since I arrived and only lasted part of the morning. The sun is out in full force now at midday. My sympathies to those in the Northeast (U.S.) who are suffering in the heat.

Domestic bliss. Yesterday I cooked dinner for Sarah and James – a simple chicken stirfry with veggies, starring “courgette” (zucchini for Americans) from Sarah’s garden. She’s very proud of her “veggie patch.” I was able to sell this stirfry concoction to James as “Candy Chicken” since I added a special ingredient, maple syrup. He even ate some vegetables and quinoa. I assembled James’s biggest birthday present, his new trampoline. Woody, our neighbor, has not officially been replaced yet as Sarah’s domestic servant though. The passing of the “rods” (plumbing snakes for Americans) the next time the septic backs up in the driveway will make it official.

The trampoline wouldn’t exactly fit in the remote spot in the corner of the yard, as Sarah had desired. Instead, it is in the middle of the yard and provides a backdrop for Sarah’s roses. (See picture.) She is marching around in a “strop” (a snit for Americans). I foresee the trampoline covered with ivy and clematis before long. It will have to be disguised in some manner.

In return for earning my keep, Sarah was more than happy - she would have been anyway - to talk the neighbor, Steve, through the hedge, about golf courses and driving ranges in the area. He belongs to a club and has offered to take me out on the course. I first have to find out if throwing your wedge (it's usually your wedge, isn't it?) is against their club rules.

I am firmly entrenched in British bureaucracy as I search for a job. I’m looking for Qualified Teacher Status (QTS) but there is a route for the Overseas Trained Teacher (OTT). But you have to register with the local council which gives you initial provisional certification. At which point the clock starts ticking on the 4 years you have to reach QTS. Before you can register with the local council, you have to have a job. I’m smelling a Catch 22 in the offing. I managed to learn all the above while figuring out how to correctly dial numbers here.

All continues to go well here as we adjust to life together. Sarah had a frightening moment, about the change in her routines and having to renegotiate life, when she realized I could be here for a long, long while. For me, I am gaining independence, familiarity and comfort, but certainly have not attained, and won’t for a while, the sense of belonging that comes with work and friendships. In the meantime, we’re getting the home front settled. Oh, and Master James. He’s happy as long as he can bounce on his trampoline.

4th of July cont'd

The 4^th of July party was fun. At the risk of sounding trite in this blog - it may be too late for that - the weather has been beautiful here. Who would have ever thought you could compare England to southern California? Every day has been sunny and in the high 70’s. (Okay, England’s version of sunny, which means there are usually clouds at the ready.) And the natives complain that it is too hot.

Back to the party, no fireworks but American flags and a rendition of the national anthem karaoke style by Jo. Luckily Jo took the lead - she must have had advanced knowledge of my singing ability and she’s probably heard Sarah sing. (By the way, did anyone know that the U.S. national anthem actually has four verses? I learned this during my party preparations.)

I couldn’t get the assembled to cross their hearts while the anthem played. So be it. The theme shifted as Michael and Lisa, next door neighbors, gave me instructions on how to survive in Brent Pelham, our little country village.

1. Don’t ever get caught with your binoculars and clipboard checking out the neighbours. (I’m not sure yet what this means but I do know that Sarah anxiously puts down all the shades in the house before we go to sleep.)
2. Say you approve of fox hunting. (I attended a foxhunt on Boxing Day last year. Technically fox hunting is outlawed but some say they “happen” onto foxes. The Burberry set were in abundance on Boxing Day.)
3. Say you vote “conservative” even if you don’t. (A reference again, I believe, to the Burberry set.)
4. Address Capt. Barclay as “sir” or “your lordship.” (He’s the nobleman of the village, head Burber.)
5. Be nice to your neighbours.

We’ve been for a couple of bike rides. Yesterday a bunch of us rode to James’s school and came back along the ford, a river bed most of the year but dry now. Today, James and I took the same ride and lingered at a few spots to explore. It is quintessential English countryside. Sarah is relieved since she took me out of the big city and was concerned I would feel Brent Pelham was too remote or isolated.

Tomorrow the job search begins in earnest.

The Cross Bronx Expressway and July 4th

Yesterday, we went to a naming ceremony, for the child of some friends of Sarah's, down in Surrey. I drove again and, unfortunately, most of the day was spent in traffic on the M25, London's version of the Cross Bronx Expressway. It was another part of my indoctrination to life in England. Though a bit more scenic than a trip through the South Bronx, the M25 is still to be avoided at all costs in the future.

Speaking of names, we met two more women named "Jo" at the party, adding further support to my theory (see earlier post). Admittedly there were no "Emma's".

The party was also good practice for my linguistic skills. I'm trying to discern the different accents corresponding to regions of the country. Sarah is a good tutor as she's got a good ear for them.

Today is July 4th, which oddly is not recognized here. We're having a few people over for a barbecue to celebrate. I'm preparing a speech in which, on behalf of all colonists, I will thank the Brits for establishing America so that, as the U.S. became the "greater nation", we could turn around and colonize them. I tried this out on one of the guests at the party in Surrey and he acknowledged that England certainly felt like a American colony when Bush and Blair were in office.

Friday night ritual

It is exciting to finally be here. We spent a year anticipating having a life together, to the point that the idea became almost an abstraction. The excitement is matched by some disorientation. I don't know my way around and the loss of all the things we usually take for granted but come with any move is accentuated by living in a new country.

Sarah has been very good to me, helping to get me quickly acclimated to life here. New items: cellphone (mobile for you Brits), new used car (as I mentioned before), driving lessons to go with the car (i.e. Sarah barking at me when I imperil her life), and a health club membership (so I don't get fat and lazy). Like a mother bird, she has quickly pushed me out of the nest, encouraging me to drive to this place or that even though I have felt tentative about the identical nature of every country road.

At home, Sarah has had a ritual with James each Friday which I have been able to join once or twice in the past when I've been over. Swimming at the health club and then pizza in front of a "DDD", as James used to call them. A sample of all the time we will all be able to spend together now.

We got the house in N’ton all buttoned up for our departure from the states. Before we left, a week earlier, in a moment of stupidity, I agreed to have a window salesman come to the house on the morning of our flight out of the states because we didn’t have enough to do. He continually referred to us by name in his sales pitch. In mid-sales pitch, he decided to switch my name from Charles to Chuck. He rambled on with stock jokes and endless facts and statistics. After he left, I commented that detainees in Gitmo would offer all manner of information after 10 minutes with this guy, if they didn’t claw their own eyes out.

I did get a chance to tell a topical joke I hadn’t told in years prompted by the window salesman’s sample vinyl window he brought with him in a neat little carrying case. Why did the ethnic carry a car door through the desert? In case he felt hot, he could roll down the window. This only encouraged Mr. Window Salesman who told a really bad (in contrast to mine) off-color joke. I'll spare you.

I’m appalled at the spelling and grammatical errors in the first post on this blog. Who wrote that? My excuse is that I had only 2.5 hours sleep at home after our flight. (No sleep on the redeye on our way over.) I’ll have to use spell and grammar check in the future.

In contrast to my sleeplessness, Sarah slept really well on the flight. She was outfitted with a neck pillow, airplane shades, and red airplane socks – a sight to make your eyes sore – and a prescription sedative. I had not been paying attention to her gearing up as I scoured the inflight magazine version of the Brookstone catalogue. I looked up for a minute, saw her and ran for the exit. I was forcibly restrained by two flight attendants. She said I would now get to know her, warts and all.

In typical kid fashion, James is counting down the days to his two “birfdays.” July 8^th, if you wanted to know, is his real one and we are having a small gathering with his dad and a few others. On Saturday, July 10^th we head with his friends to Woburn, home to a safari park. (Apparently, unbeknownst to most, just an hour from here is England’s vast savannah.) Luckily James is only counting down in days and not hours or minutes. It really is sweet. He seems to be adjusting well to my arrival – we get on well – and judging from past conversations between him and Sarah, surely trying to figure out how to reconcile my presence in his life.

More driving today. This time to the big city of Bishop Stortford. (All towns and villages have two words in their names. Yesterday we were in Saffron Walden. We live in Brent Pelham. And on and on.) More of a challenge today because of traffic and roundabouts. Much to Sarah’s dismay, I like to look left as I enter roundabouts. Old habits die hard.