Big Brother

On Monday night (Oct. 18), while drying off from the bath, James asked if he could have a pet of his own. He wanted something that he could cuddle (his fish are hard to cuddle) and that wouldn’t run away (Kissa, our cat, has an understandable fear of kids). I could only think that somehow he sensed that something was up. Sarah and I had to restrain ourselves from saying, “Will a baby do?”

At the kitchen table, after dinner on the following Thursday, homework completed, the last of the pudding scarfed, Sarah asked James to sit in her lap because we wanted to tell him about a big surprise we had for him. Head nestled against Sarah’s chest, he immediately guessed that he was getting a hamster. We said that it was an even bigger surprise. He awaited our next comment eagerly with wide, puzzled eyes. We told him he was going to be a big brother. He leaned back, looked at Sarah, eyes widening further, the puzzlement instantly turning to glee. I said, to give him a location for his affection, “It’s in Mummy’s tummy.” He gave Sarah a big hug and came over to me with another hug. Then stepping away, he stood between us and said very maturely, “I know how this happened." (“Oh no,” we thought.) Pointing at each of us, he said, "This baby came from you guys. I came from my real dad and mum. You guys made this baby.”

We asked James if he would like to see pictures of the baby and pulled out the ultrasound scans which are amazingly detailed and clear (see pictures). We pointed out different features and, one particular scan which showed the baby picking its nose. We commented that James must have left a note behind in mommy’s tummy with instructions.  

Our baby

Baby's legs

Baby's fingers

We told him we didn’t know whether it would be a boy or a girl but that we would tell him as soon as we knew. Thus, over the course of the next few days, began the litany of questions, concerns, ideas, and thoughts – all betraying his excitement.

Practical: What should we call it? When will it be born? How old will it be when it’s born? Will we have enough money? If not, you can use money from my money pot. How old does the baby have to be before we can go on holiday?

Heart-wrenching: (To Sarah, who had a difficult childbirth with James) What happens if you die when you give birth? What happens if the baby dies before it is born?

Scientific: How does it eat? How does it breath in there? Where does the wee go? Where does the poop go?

General: It must be really dark in there.

Nurturing: He asked Sarah to open her mouth so that he could offer the baby advice, relishing his role as big brother.

We were relieved to see James’s response. We had anticipated disappointment at losing his place at the center of the universe. Of course, the baby is still an abstraction to him so we'll keep you posted.

The Harvest Festival (Sept. 26)

The Service

In a country covered by farmland – 75% of England is farmland – you need to pay homage to the Lord for the harvest. The church service was held in the Norman church in our little village. We were joined by Phil, Kate and Ralph. Phil is Sarah’s partner in their practice. The trio are good family friends.

To set the scene succinctly, the day was rainy and raw. As we sat in a dank stone church, I understood why tweed jackets and corduroy (wide-wale) trousers were in abundance. They looked so warm and comfortable. Sarah forbade me to wear my wide-wale corduroys and guffawed at the mention of my tweed sports jacket (I really have one, with vents even) in the closet.

The vicar introduced the purpose for our gathering and led the service efficiently. After fifteen minutes, Ted Barclay, as the prominent farmer in the area, was asked to speak. Standing beneath the large plaque dedicated to his father, Major Barclay, Ted shared a crop report and compared Britain’s yield to India and China, reminding us of our relative imperviousness to any great variance in weather (drought, floods or other natural disasters). Seamlessly, he transitioned to thanks giving for the abundance of food. Hey, thanksgiving!

After Ted’s speech, the vicar launched forth with questions about the ingredients in bread. She asked what prayer mentions bread. Unable to resist an ecumenical moment, I yelled out, “The motzi.” (The Hebrew prayer over bread: Baruch atah adonia eloheynu olam, boray pree hagafen, hamotzi lechem Minnie Horowitz.) The congregants were stunned, momentarily taken off course, but as they witnessed Sarah’s elbow into my uncushioned, tweedless flank, were able to regain their focus and resume the service.

(I revert to some fictional accounts because I missed parts of the service due to a child, directly behind us, who talked and whinged (whining for you Americans) throughout the hour-long service. I know I sound like a curmudgeon but I’ve never witnessed anything like it.)

The service hummed along nicely with recitations by children and reached its pinnacle with the children’s choir leading “Pears and Apples.” Phil had mentioned, over breakfast, that he loved this hymn and he and James sang to the nave rafters with the fervor of Mahalia Jackson.

Pears and Apples – Lyrics

Pear and apples, wheat and grapes

Many textures, many shapes

Falling leaves in golden drifts

Thank you God, for harvest gifts

Flashing shoals of silver fish,

Every colour you could wish;

Fishing boats, for you and me

Reap the harvest of the sea

Deep beneath the ocean floor

Fuel and power have lain in store,

Brought to use through dangerous toil

Thank you, God, for gas and oil.

Coal black diamonds in the earth,

Ancient forests gave them brith;

Skill and labour now combine

Raping harvests of the mine.

Earth and ocean, plant and beast,

Altogether make the feast;

All who long to share your grace

At your table have their place.

Loving Lord, we know you care;

May we all your goodness share;

Save us from all selfish greed,

Finding you in those who need.

The Meal

The service was followed by a Sunday roast – leg of lamb and many other fixin’s – in the village hall across from the church. The meal for 50, prepared by 3 women in the hall’s tiny kitchen, was delicious. We chatted with village folk, giving me a better opportunity to see the character and community spirit of Brent Pelham in full. 

The real focus of the meal was the three blackberry-apple crumbles including one by neighbor Jo. Jo is the standard-bearer and the one I look to take the measure of my crumbles. I chose not to embarrass Sarah (or myself) and only partook of Jo’s crumble.

By the way, the following day, I made another crumble after a walk to pick blackberries. This time I reduced the amount of cinnamon and didn’t overcook the apples when I carmelized them. James had tea at Jo and Woody’s with Tom and then they came back to our house for pudding (what we Americans call “dessert”). Jo, with a discerning palate, gave the thumbs up. I still haven’t gotten the magical response that you see in Chocolat, Babette’s Feast, or Like Water for Chocolate - a sort of mesmerized, transported glaze in the eyes. My standards may be too high or it may take more than an apple-blackberry crumble.

After the meal, we lingered a while. The skies relented and we headed back home, bellies full and glad that the whingeing child lives at the other end of the village.