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.

Harvey, Henry VIII, the Pope, and Robin Hood

Harvey, Henry and the Pope
While in Yorkshire, we also saw my brother, Harvey, and Rebecca, who were “in country,” in Ilkley. Ilkley is an upmarket town up north and home to Betty’s, a restaurant and bakery, which is world famous, apparently. 

Harvey is doing well. He’s not fully operational post-operation but he is close to getting on the golf course. To warm up, we sat at the first tee of the golf course at the hotel, for a half an hour, watching a succession of golfers tee off.  We probably looked like two old men on a park bench not that anyone would confuse us with two old men. 

The four of us paid a brief visit to Bolton Abbey, inhabited by monks for 400 years until Henry VIII’s dissolution of Monasteries in 1539. We drove past moors, dales, and hillocks but no fens or heaths. The north has dramatic vocabulary, I mean, vistas along rolling hills. As you drive along the moors, the bucolia (it’s not a word but it should be) makes it difficult to keep your eyes on the road. This led to a rotation of drivers, partly to witness the scenery and partly to spare relationships.

Speaking of Henry the VIII, the pope is currently visiting the UK. He was greeted by the Queen in an address. (The Queen - I didn’t realize this - is the titular head of the Anglican Church and the Archbishop of Canterbury is the CEO.) She was gracious – emphasizing commonalities – and stressing this as a time for unity. The Catholic Church in England has lost about 2 million members since the pope’s last visit but, in his speech, he elected to go on the offensive, expressing concern about rampant atheism. BBC News did not report any rampant atheists returning to the Church because of his harangue.  

Robin Hood
Robin Hood is alive and well, taking a more entrepreneurial approach, lending his name to several, small, successful commercial ventures including an airport. Like Newman's empire, 100% of R.H.'s profits are donated to "good" causes - charities specifically to reduce poverty. His wife, Ms. Marion Hood, an entrepreneur herself, has a lingerie line, Maidenwear, that has been selling vigorously in boutiques in Canary Wharf. Not to be overshadowed, their son, Robin Jr., has launched a rap record label, da Real Hood, and has produced his first hit single, "Son of a Righteous Gangsta".

Sunday Roast, Yorkshire Puddings, and Crumbles

I’ve had two opportunities to have Yorkshire Pudding(s). The first time I partook of YP, Sarah made Sunday roast, which is analogous (analogs again?) to Shabbat dinner. Well, except not everything on the table is kosher. And, well, not everyone at the table is circumcised. (How often do you see circumcision mentioned in a food column?)

I liken Yorkshire Pudding to noodle kugel for its place in the British heart (or stomach). It’s about as simple to make and, similarly, satisfies the palate. I could easily see Jews adopting Yorkshire pudding as part of the Sabbath meal, though it would never replace challah for dipping (“tzupping up” is the Yiddish term, I think) in chicken soup. 

Yorkshire Puddings - Fresh out of the oven

I also can’t resist, maybe competitively, showing off my first blackberry-apple crumble (*see quiz below), which I made while Sarah was making the Sunday roast. James, his good friend Tommy, Sarah and I picked the blackberries along a historical country walk we had taken. I had mentioned, in an earlier post, that there had been several murders committed in the vicinity. This walk (as the English like to call their hikes, maybe because many of them attain no altitude) traced some of the murders in Clavering, which we found in a book I bought called, “Clavering Walks.” The blackberries were adequate – not yet at their peak – and we used some apples Sarah had frozen. I adjusted the recipe with a greater proportion of oats to flour. The result was good and Sarah gracefully ceded the title, at least in our household, to me. I accepted the new title and commensurate responsibility, but felt there was a need for refinement. 

Blackberry-Apple Crumble: A Work in Progress

A race for seconds

The second time I partook of Yorkshire Puddings was at Sarah’s parent’s house for another Sunday roast dinner. June and Malcolm live up north in Thorpe Willoughby in the county of Yorkshire, namesake of the aforementioned puddings. June’s Yorkshire puddings were also delicious. I couldn’t say which was better lest I stir up trouble with my partner or my mother-in-law (soon). On the car trip north, Sarah recounted how, as kids, she and her brother, Richard, used to fight over the extra Yorkshire puddings. Luckily, with the extras on this occasion, I was given guest’s privileges. I had half of one, dividing them among the three (other?) kids at the table.

The post-prandial entertainment was provided by Sarah’s niece, Amelia. At 10, already very dramatic and, like all fledgling actresses and comediennes, she capitalizes on the family as her first and best audience. The dining room picture window provides a view to the front yard and street. It also doubled as a frame for Amelia’s performance. She is not a greedy star so I was able to join her retinue. We took imaginary stairs and, on a second occasion, an escalator to the driveway.

Today, Sarah and I went to a local pub for Sunday roast. We had made tentative plans to pick blackberries with neighbor Jo. When we returned home from the pub, we ventured out, with Jo and her kids, for some more blackberries. This time we picked the blackberries, out of the “hedgerow” on the way to the ford (right now, a dry riverbed). No tales of murder along this route although one wonders what communal strife would arise if the blackberry supply ran low. In early autumn, the countryside is rife with people picking berries and the electricity grid use surges on Sunday afternoons as collective crumbles cook. On the way back we stopped off for some apples from Jo’s tree. This time, I put in too much flour and oats, and too little apple. Also, due to a lack of forethought, I had to use faux butter. The last was a crucial mistake. This time, the crumble was good but possibly a step down in quality. In the future, certainly butter, per Julia Child’s axiom, and I will reduce the flour and oats so they can better soak up the juices from the fruit, caramelizing sugar, and the flavor of browning butter. I’ve also had the brainstorm to add cinnamon and nutmeg. I welcome any comments on the nutmeg.

The cooking process provides some insight into my transition to life here. Sarah and I move through continual phases of adjustments to each other. We have abundant amounts of love and respect for each other. We are willing to hear each other and use a mixture of compassion and courage as we create a life together. Like my attempts with the blackberry-apple crumble, we have the necessary ingredients and are in the process of continually refining the recipe.

*Quiz: What's the difference between a crumble, a brickle, and a cobbler?

Travels with Charley (see J. Steinbeck)

We've got a little catching up to do. 


At the end of the holiday in the states, Sarah and I packed up the house in Northampton and left it in good condition for the renter, Ariel. I was an ambivalent participant in the clean up. Even though we're framing this chapter of our lives as a temporary permanent move - we're coming back to the states some day - it was hard to leave Northampton yet again, especially after spending time with friends at book group, poker, golf, and dinners and with family at the beach and in Boston. I don't take these relationships for granted and I've been feeling the distance lately because of the time difference and the difficulty in maintaining contact. 

One antidote for my homesickness has been to explore my new surroundings. Since we've been back from the States, I have been immersed in my English "adventure" with Sarah as both tour guide and companion. I will try not to bore you with too many pictures and tales from, what may seem to some as, my endless English vacation. 


Grantchester

Sarah’s mother, June was visiting for a few days so we ventured up to Grantchester for tea. The Orchard at Grantchester is situated in a village near Cambridge where Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein, Sylvia Plath, E.M. Forster, Virginia Woolf (together known as The Granchester Group) and others spent time away from their studies. It can still be reached from Cambridge by punts along the River Cam. Grantchester holds some renown. One inhabitant, Rupert Brooke, who, by all accounts, was a middling poet but most remarkably, a handsome and thus “opportunistic” fellow. (Tiger Woods without quite as much media coverage?) Around the corner from the Orchard at Grantchester stands a church, which we visited, dating back to 1100 A.D., where Brooke must have confessed his sins. (Learn more about Grantchester at: http://www.orchard-grantchester.com/)

Audley End House

On the way back, we stopped at Audley End, a stately home, just 30 minutes from our house which is part of the English Heritage, a trust created to maintain these sites. Audley End was a residence of members of the king’s court and eventually to Charles II (sadly, no relation) in 1668. Audley End, like many of these manors, tells a fascinating and sometimes sordid history of portions of the rich and aristocratic. Two massive wings had been demolished but the parterre gardens, stables, organic fruit and vegetable gardens still exist. (I get some kickbacks for advertising: http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/daysout/properties/audley-end-house-and-gardens/)

Norfolk Coast
The following week, James was with his dad. Sarah and I snuck away to the Norfolk coast for two days. We stayed at the top of a seaside inn (a very lucky find) with a view of a coastline that changes dramatically with the tides. We walked for 7 miles along a coastal path which took us past salt marshes, the site of Roman ruins, small fishing villages, and out to a beach. A beautiful area.

On the second day, it was "just tipping it down” as Sarah would say so we visited Holkham Hall, which is an active residence of the seventh Earl of Leicester and his family. They were not available to receive us so we toured the facility on our own. To give a proper sense of scale – actually, to move it beyond comprehension – there are 400 houses on the property. (The tractor with a bushhog attachment was a mere speck on the back lawn.) In the early 1970’s, the manor was near dissolution but the Earl was able to turn the properties and accompanying farms and small industries into profitable ventures, saving Holkham Hall from an unknown fate. Like Audley End, a docent stands in each room, unassuming yet eager to regale you with facts and lore about the manor and its inhabitants. The last stop as we left the coast was an ale house with 50 locally brewed offerings. I don't drink vast quantities of beer but I've been sampling and savoring my purchases. (I can't help myself : http://www.therealaleshop.co.uk/)

For local colour, I've also now attended the Brent Pelham village fete (they pronounce it "fate" shunning the French version probably due to lingering antipathy for the French), our village picnic and I will soon partake in the Harvest Festival.

"Two countries separated by a common language" - George Bernard Shaw

Over time, in my adjustment to things British (and to stave off Anglicization), I have started to categorize my experience into analogs and non-analogs. Boot for car trunk, aubergine for eggplant, courgette for zucchini, kagool for raincoat, and so forth and so on. For the most part, there is a one-for-one correspondence between the languages. Some of the phrases are enchanting and entertaining. A situation that goes bad, goes "pear-shaped." (I love that one.) Though Shakespeare is long gone, they still use the terms "fortnight" (I heard it twice in two days) and "methinks." "Losing the plot" is not to be confused with getting your "knickers in a twist" though the latter may lead to the former.


Grammatically, there are differences reflected in conjugation: Referring to the English football team, the announcer may comment, "England are moving the ball well" or in general conversation you might hear, "The group are coming for tea." 


Gustatorily, the differences take a darker turn. Whilst (catch that?) in Brancaster Staithe (on the Norfolk Coast), we had a true English breakfast including black pudding. Scottish in origin. Sounds benign, right? Congealed pig's blood on the menu wouldn't sell well. Fine. But to present it as a delicacy? By jove! Sure they season it and I understand being resourceful with offal (heck, my eastern European ancestors savored stuffed derma and I've yet to learn what's in that) but give a bloke a heads up when it gets that serious. As for other dining experiences, sausage seems to be a staple of the English diet. At the recent village picnic, one participant took a bite of a sausage and, savoring it like a fine wine, cited it's origin as Braughing, a nearby village. I could go on.


Meteorology
The Norfolk coast also revealed other aspects of the British personality. A trip to the beach can happen in any weather, you just need to be well equipped. Sarah tells stories from her youth (I know, she is still young) where they would set up a windbreak (see picture) and, if it was raining, erect a dinghy over their heads for shelter. I've yet to witness the latter and, sensibly, may never.


(Click on the pictures to enlarge them.) 

Keeping warm with a windbreak on the Norfolk coast

Does that look like a beach day to you?

Speaking of weather (let me digress), it seems every Brit is an amateur meteorologist swinging dramatically between optimism and pessimism. A dark cloud on the horizon is a sure sign of rain. In a near-totally darkened sky, enough blue sky to "make a sailor's trouser leg," offers hope for a clear day. Remembering descriptions from my childhood, English weather was simplistically characterized as rainy. And my experience in America is that the forecasts are actually generally accurate with an occasional error. In England, since it is a little island, it is nearly impossible to provide an accurate forecast. There are so many small weather pockets moving through. On a typical day it will rain a couple of times. So I think the effort at meteorology is an attempt to maintain some semblance of control over, really, a helpless situation.


Hanging laundry on the line to dry (let me digress again to an even more engaging topic) is an English pastime. While the ethic is admirably "green," it is impractical given the predicatably unpredictable weather. How many mornings now, at the bus stop, have I heard about someone either running to take the wash in in anticipation of the rain or commenting on the futility of yesterday's wash-hanging?


(Following this discourse - not to be confused with a diatribe - you and I can now understand why James said to me in the car a couple of weeks ago, "Chip, you need to get a job." More on that later.)


I digress. Back to non-analogs (besides sailor's trouser legs and black pudding). After our tours of English manors,  the vestiges of the aristocracy still hold a unique position. Sure America has its uber-wealthy upper crust, but when your monarch is still supported by taxing the citizenry, and the legacy throughout the country is of noblemen and women, class is more formalized compared to the "bootstrap" mentality found in America.

Speaking of British history (now is this a digression within a digression - have you seen Inception?), Sept. 7, was the 70th anniversary of the beginning of the Blitz of London. The accounts of death and devastation are harrowing. 72 straight days of bombing. Enemy planes came right up the Thames, taking out stashes of supplies. Sarah has pointed out to me parts of East London where new construction adjoins Victorian era buildings telling the tale of the bombing. WWII holds a much firmer and intimate place in the British psyche than I had realized. (9/11 may now similarly occupy the American psyche.) Even before the anniversary of the Blitz, I had heard several other radio accounts of the war and have come to better understand its place in British consciousness. The proximity naturally leads to the primacy of the events.


Domestic Update
Speaking of war, on the home front, we are.......all adapting well. (See, just kidding.) James did say, after three days of school, that he was sick of it. He's getting more challenging homework - so far I approve - but he also mentioned, wistfully, his loss of freedom. 


It is always fascinating to watch a child's cognitive development. Some of this entails attempts by James at wordplay in the form of jokes, puns, and the new, and sometimes, creative use of expressions. Then there are the poop jokes. Yet, again, he asks the most interesting questions about life revealing a true inquisitiveness and, almost, philosophical attitude.  


Sarah has less time for philosophy. She is currently challenged by the potential changes to the NHS (National Healthcare System) introduced by the new Tory (well, coalition) government. I could send you the white paper - the government's platform - but I'll spare you. Among other things, they are proposing changes to the management of commissioning (payment) of services from a centralized body to individual practices. It has far-reaching implications for her practice, and everyone else's, so she's attending strategy meetings and discussions. Hopefully, I have been taking some of the pressure off her by taking James to the bus in the morning, making lunches and dinners, and doing other household chores.


I have a card game coming up with some of the blokes in the village. It will take time to learn the CVs for these guys like I have on my Northampton boys. I'll try to take some money off them in the meantime.


Employment Update
No news yet. I am making forays, joining discussion groups, visiting schools and still pursuing the transfer of my credentials. (The agency recently returned someone else's check to me which raises doubts about their efficiency.) 


Note: This blog website is a little crotchety when it comes to formatting. Please excuse the gaps. It's not my fault, okay?

James's tour of Chip's new house

I showed James my last blog entry about his time in the states. He soon started taking pictures of the house here to tell people about Chippie’s new home. (I guess he wanted to return the favor.) Here’s his essentially unfettered account though I tried to steer him away from describing every item in each picture. 

Let me pre-empt any comments about whose narrative is more stimulating. I'm trying to learn from the fresh and uninhibited observations of a seven year old. 

We took some pictures of Chip's new house. It is very good. Chip is having a nice time. This is a bit of his office. There is more too. This is the other part of his office. This is my mom’s old sewing machine.

This is the sink in the bathroom where we wash our teeth and wash our hands. This is the bath where we clean. Mommy sometimes relaxes in it. Chip lights candles for Mom. This is the toilet with one of the candles on top of it.

This is mom’s bed in her bedroom. There is a lamp beside the bed. Chip sleeps in there, too. It is a nice bedroom. It is a very good room. I go in there in the mornings with Mom and Chip.

This is the dining room. I like eating there. We eat there on Xmas eve and special occasions.

The lounge is the best place in the house because of all the comfy furniture, the rug and the TV.  This is the other side of the lounge. The big door goes to the garden. I sometimes make dens behind the furniture. We don’t often use the lamp on the side. This is the whole living room but there is another half. 

This is the kitchen where we normally eat. There is a radio that we listen to. I like to eat there because you can see out the window. This is the toaster.

This is my playroom where I leave most of my toys. I have lots of toys and games to play with in there. It’s quite a nice place. I have a football board, a tv and a map in the back. The door leads to Kissa’s room. (Kissa is the cat.) There are some beanbags to sit on while I watch the tv and a nice rug to lie on. I like it in there because there is lots of stuff to do and I can relax in there. This is my fish tank. I can look at my fish in my playroom. I like the old ship decoration and the rocks. The fish don’t normally go in there but when they sleep they look like they are dead. They’re not really dead.

 

This is outside. Not oftenly [sic] we eat out here. It’s a nice table because you can feel the breeze and we have candles. In the daytime, it's nice because of the sun. I like it because of all the sounds you can hear. This is my trampoline. I go there quite often. I got it for my seventh birthday. It’s nice because it is shady under the tree. It is very bouncy. Sometimes friends come round and I let them bounce on the trampoline, too, with me. We play this game where there are lots of balls and we have to dodge them.

This is the garden. I have a shed that I can go in. It’s really messy in there. I can go on the playset and a goal I can shoot in. I sometimes play football in the garden with my dad. I like playing football with my dad. I also go to a football club.

This is the veggie patch where we get most of our vegetables. There is a giant pumpkin but the bad thing is there are loads and loads and loads of caterpillars. The caterpillars eat all the leaves of the vegetables. For some reason the vegetables don’t die.

This is my bedroom. I really like sleeping with my teddies. (James petered out here and went to sleep with his teddies. His bedroom is the site of many inspired works including his version of Captain Underpants with text and drawings, new Lego inventions, and, recently, James's Book of Life.)

Week 2 in the States

We came back to Northampton to find the house in good order thanks to neighbors (Doug and Judith – windows) and friends (Tom, Alice and Danny – mulching; Marty - mail). I/we saw friends at the book group, poker, golf, dinners, etc. James was quite lucky and made a fast friend with our neighbors’ grandson, Douglas, who was staying with them for the week. After spending a day with Douglas, James proclaimed them “old friends.” The two of them went to a fair, for bike rides, and took me on in a water fight. (Don’t listen to anything they say. I crushed them.) Speaking of water, over the course of the two weeks in the steamy Northeast, we figured that James found 9 different sources of water to cool off in, including the ocean on Long Island, the Rock River in VT, water slides at the Littleville Fair, the NCC pool, water sprinklers at Look Park, a “paddling pool” in our back yard and a tremendous dousing, in the aforementioned water fight, from a Supersoaker.

As a result of his trips to the US, James, on a few occasions has commented on wanting to stay. Of course, the US is closely linked with ski vacations, swimming in a river in VT, going to East Hampton (LI), many people doting on him and plenty of ice cream all along the way. (Don’t worry, his life here is not too bad either.)

Sarah enjoys her American life as well. As she has spent time in NY and Boston, gotten to know my family, friends and the Northampton area, she’s developing plans. She was ready to buy a house near the swimming hole in VT.

HEY, wait, how did that pic get in there? That’s me in my Wellies, “rodding the drains”. We had a backup in the septic tank. Not available to James for swimming, though he was almost responsible for a lake in the driveway. I won’t take all the credit for the success in clearing the drain. It was a team effort between Sarah and her mom, June. Luckily, we caught Woody and Jo just before they had left for vacation so we could borrow the rods. (Woody, I think the torch has been officially passed. Or do I have to buy my own set of rods?)

Time in the States

We’re back in BP now. (Maybe I shouldn’t use the initials for Brent Pelham.) James is in Barracudas (day camp) and Sarah is back to work. Our two-week trip to the states was fun, minus a medical scare for my brother, Harvey.

Week 1: We picked up James at Heathrow on a Friday (7/30) after he had spent a week with his dad in Finland. International traveler, he. He had no discernible tan lines from his time in Finland since he ran around with no clothes on at the beach at a summer house on the Baltic Sea. (BTW, Finland recorded a record high of 98 degrees.) On Saturday, we flew to the states and, on Sunday morning, we took the LIRR (can you say “cultcha shock”?) out to East Hampton. We were swimming on the other side of the Atlantic by the afternoon.

Meanwhile, in Boston, on Sunday, Harvey was drinking his pre-operation fluid to clear his GI system. He was scheduled to have surgery on what was believed to be a benign tumor – a duplication of the bowel – on Monday. We were all, innocently, looking forward to good news.

Back at the beach. No kids in sight but James instantly had great playmates in Amy, Jerry, Jane. James is absolutely fearless in the ocean. (He is not familiar with undertow nor rip tides.) I, in contrast, whilst playing in the waves with James, experienced those harrowing moments when the wave has crashed, the foam is dissipating and James has not surfaced. In fact though, he repeatedly came up from the tumble-wash of the waves with a big smile on his face. He loves a good ride. On our second day at the beach, as a big wave approached, I picked up James, twisted to place him out of harm’s way and my back went into spasm.

Harvey’s surgery was quicker than expected – they removed 10 inches of his small intestine and a five pound tumor (yes, you read that right) in less than two hours – but the recovery was painful since the epidural only took on one side. More painful, after the surgery, was the surgeon’s lack of bedside manner. He, off-handedly, listed the possible diagnoses including a type of rare sarcoma. This put Rebecca on her heels. Harvey was already laying down. Luckily, my father and Uncle Jerry were making their way (somehow) to Boston on Monday night and spent Tuesday with Harvey and Rebecca, returning on Tuesday evening.

I attributed my back spasms to being pulled in two directions – being at the beach with family but wanting to be with my brother and Rebecca in Boston. Rebecca was understandably shaken by the potential diagnosis and was looking for support. We made our way to Boston on Wednesday and I soon felt the muscles in my back relax. We were joined in the hospital in Boston by my brother Andy and Harvey’s daughter, Amy. Now we had a nursing student, a GP with 20 years of experience and a medical malpractice lawyer, who represents Memorial Sloan Kettering, to look after things.

Meanwhile, Harvey was doped up on Dilaudid to aid the epidural but slowly regaining his bearings. Sipping water, graduating to cranberry juice and, eventually, Italian ices, Harvey tested his intestines. We waited for him to pass gas – to signify progress – nothing he had ever struggled with before and something none of us ever before attended to with such excited anticipation. Flatulence and bowel function was his ticket out and a worthy distraction for all while we waited for the pathology report.

Sarah realized that James had never been to a hospital before. Before we got on the elevator, he was stunned by people on gurneys with oxygen tubes in their noses, people in wheelchairs with IV stands and all the accoutrements common to hospital settings. He later accepted our explanation that it was a place to help people get well but he wasn’t too eager to return soon. The next morning, he and Sarah went to the Science Museum and saw an IMax movie on dinosaurs and then “Cats and Dogs” in the afternoon. Happily, on Friday, our last day in Boston, we all returned to the hospital to see Harvey sitting up in a chair with cather and IV's removed, working on his laptop. James was relieved but wanted to hear Harvey fart before we left.

Finally, the epilog: After a full week of agonizing worry, the pathology report revealed that it was a desmoid tumor. The short version is that it is not cancerous but is possibly recurrent. Harvey will have regular follow-ups but we feel he avoided something much more serious. I was grateful that we were in the states at the time. Thanks to all the supportive well-wishers who were waiting for the news with us.

You live out these real-life dramas, so intense in the moment, and, luckily, sometimes, you can look back at them with some levity, fueled by relief.

Next installment: Week 2.