The Immigrant's Limbo

**WARNING contains me, gross generalizations about whole nations of people, chases and escapes, and some thoughtful rambling.**

I have been working a post about British summer fairs/fetes on and off for a month or so, but with other writing and reading commitments I haven't been able to finish it. Also, summer ended unceremoniously about two weeks ago here in England and that sort of takes the joy out of a summer post. I'll save it for next year because I need to move on and definitely need to post something!

Meanwhile, I went home to America for three weeks and when I returned to the UK the refugee crisis slapped me around the head and heart for awhile. So instead I find myself thinking about "going home" and thinking about the reasons people choose to be immigrants as well as how unfathomably lucky I am via the accident of my birthplace not to be a refugee. Note I am not using those terms interchangeably. I have immigrated, chasing travel and culture. Syrians are refugees fleeing death.

Going "home" to where my parents live is not like going home for most people. I have not lived in the state of my birth since I was nine years old. For thirty years now (AHHHH!!!!), heading to the homeland is a vacation, always a temporary experience.

My "heart home", as a friend calls it, is in and around Chapel Hill, North Carolina where I went to most of high school. I have come and gone from the CH area at least six times since I graduated high school, most recently I lived in nearby Raleigh for eleven years with my now husband. I had two kids there. My oldest friends are all there or call it home. It's the reason James Taylor songs sometimes make me weepy.

This past trip to America, the fam and I all went to Raleigh for a week and it is the longest I've been in my HH (heart-home, you remember the previous paragraph, right?) since moving to England. I was worried before the visit that I was just going to spend the whole time crying; mourning this place I love, the people there that I love even more, and the life I had there. It was a surprise not to feel that way. I think there are two main reasons why I didn't, but I reserve the right as I go on to have those two reasons turn into three or four, so don't get too attached to those numbers.

One, after two weeks in America the sprawl was waring on me. Seriously y'all, we have a problem with too many things and being far and no one driving with any kind of sense. British drivers are simply better than us.* They rarely talk on the phone or text while driving. And while I may not know where/which shops to get things in here in England, when I figure it out, the shop will have the thing and I will not have search to endlessly in a cavern of goods all screaming "BUY ME!" and "You know you need more!"

Also, when we were in Raleigh my partner worked and I partly did my old routine with my kids. It felt comfortable and familiar, not unlike visiting my home town in Georgia. I know where the fun stuff is, the tasty food, and I can get from point A to point B without satnav. I struggled a little with not being able to do everything I wanted or see everyone I could have, but it wasn't overwhelming. We didn't have anyone to babysit, so people came to see us in the evenings as well. Sitting at a kitchen table chatting with friends was lovely and exactly the way I wanted to spend time with people. But it's also so familiar that it was hard to feel sad about not being able to do it anytime I want.

An unexpected thing happened too. When people implied or directly asked if I was unhappy or dissatisfied living England - I got defensive. Like I was all "it's so beautiful, I can't complain" and "where we are, the pace is a little slower and I like that" or "the tea really is so much better." I know that I partly reacted this way because I don't like people pitying me and I also don't want anyone getting the idea that I came to the UK to make my partner happy and have no agency. Cos that ain't so. I am lonely here. A lot. But America felt icky in more ways than the ninety plus degree heat with ridiculous humidity.

When I have lived abroad in the past, coming back to the US took adjusting to. After Tblisi, it was the whole "I'm really a grown up" thing (hahaha). After China, I stood WAY too close to people all the time and had anxiety attacks in the grocery store. Now I find coming back to America, even to The South wherein I really treasure people's friendliness, kind of slaps me in the face with commercialism and go-go and consumerism. It is, in a word, Aggressive. When you are IN a culture, you get desensitized. You perceive standing with your nose touching the head of the person in front of you as the norm. And in America, we have accepted a high level of obnoxious advertising and media invading our lives. We reward pushy people. And now I find that it sparks at the back of mind in a way that is annoying/tiring over time.

None of this is to say I dislike America. Nor is England some sort of Utopia. My oldest got back and was saying "hello" to everyone we passed in the street because that's what we do in Georgia. I felt bad that he wasn't getting the same charming attention in the UK as he had in the US. People in the UK don't give good hugs, at least they don't give them to me very often.

At the end of the day, this is what it is like to immigrate (by choice) somewhere. Going back and forth between cultures and feeling neither is quite right anymore. It's like after you have a baby and even though you've lost your baby weight your old clothes don't fit right. Your body has experienced a shift that loss of pounds cannot restore. You have to wrap yourself in something new and learn how to be comfortable in your freshly renovated body.

So here I am back in England. And it felt nice to come back to my house with my things in it. To be with my little family and not have to share ourselves or our time. The temperatures were of course a relief. Winding green lanes were once again novel and lovely; after I stopped being terrified of being on the wrong side. Again. And I realize that living in England has moved my inner tectonic plates. Change has come again to my random and twisty life. Loneliness has led me focusing more on my writing. Friendships are dearer, near and far. The slower pace (no really all this travel and stuff is actually slower) that my day to day has taken on is mostly a good thing. And seriously, the tea and cake are pretty spectacular.

Nobody panic though. I'm not applying for citizenship and I'm still disinclined to garden. There's iced tea in my fridge and sweet potatoes in my pantry.

*I am ignoring all white van drivers, you know who you are.

Almost Like Running

This is a short story that I've been entering into things (in slightly shorter and longer versions). Posting it on my blog is not a form of publication. I am sharing it with a community for feedback and support. No portion of this story should be posted elsewhere, shared, or reproduced with out permission of the author, which is ME. 

Almost like Running

I can’t run. But that’s no big deal since I can’t walk either. Nor can I sit up totally on my own or wipe my own ass very well. I’ve never been able to do those things though, so I’m not completely sure I miss them. Of course lots of people, mostly my parents, talk to me a lot about privacy and trying to respect mine since I don’t get much “alone time”. But as with my inability to move and the toilet routine, I’ve never really had privacy the way they think of it, so I don’t know how to crave it. I don’t know how to miss most of the things I can’t do. Except for running. That’s the one that gets me. My wheelchair is motorized and it can get fairly speedy; the wind blows my hair a bit and I feel the tingle of speed and its dangerousness. So I feel like I can say that while I have never run, I miss it. My body misses it.

“Vincent, are you going to miss me?” Nurse Nancy asked. I would and I knew it. But you can’t say that because who would yearn to be in the hospital.

“I’m ready to go home and since you can’t come with me…” I answered lightly.

“You’re such a sweetheart, little Vincent,” she said. I was always going to be “little Vincent” to the nurses at St.Stephen’s. They’d looked after me almost since I was born. But really, little Vincent was looking down Nancy’s scrubs whenever she vigorously tucked in the blanket at the bottom of my bed. I mean, I couldn’t look away when she did it. It was mesmerizing, that swaying flesh.

I dream about running a lot. Well, maybe not as much as I dream about flying and occasionally Nurse Nancy, but I think my running dreams are the ones that are simultaneously the best and worst of my dreams. The running dreams feel real. As though somewhere in my DNA is the program code for running and my brain can take it and play it through my mind and across my body so that during the dreams I feel totally whole. I am wind. My muscles and veins throb with life. And then I wake up. I can never go back to the same feeling if I try to go to sleep again right away. On those nights I don’t usually go back to sleep at all. It’s too depressing. So, I read.

“Whatcha reading there Big Guy?” my Dad asked.

“Something for school. Kinda boring,” I said. Total lie. I was reading “Dune.” I’d read the school assigned book in one night and had no intention of cracking it again because what I said about being boring was definitely true.

If there’s an invention that I think has made life hugely better for people like me in last hundred years, it’s the ebook. I don’t have to ask anyone to read or try to wrangle a heavy book into a spot where I can both see it and turn the pages. Harder than you think when you’re farsighted and can’t lean too far forward or turn over easily. If I’m lucky, my older sister will help me to bed and she’ll let me keep my earbuds and ipad close. My parents think those things are distraction from rest. I guess I get to be a normal teen at least in a few ways.

“Honey, you can’t have the ipad in bed. You’ve got school tomorrow and Nelly has a track meet,” Mom said.

“Aw, come on. I won’t use it unless I can’t sleep,” I said.

“You won’t be able to sleep if you know you can use it. Right? Give it,” my Mom opened and closed her hand at me like needy two-year old.

“Fine,” I said in my best surely-teen voice, but really I’d already snuck my ebook under my pillow. The ipad was just red herring.

After my running dreams, I like to read either science fiction or westerns. Frankly, I think they are mostly the same. I mean there’s always bad guys and a mission to do, or a wrong to right, and shooting things with either lasers or bullets. My favorite western is this stupid historical one that is kind of a romance novel I think. I found it for free in the stuff posted by authors on the ebook website. I don’t care so much about the love story and I really don’t care about this chick’s petticoats and their various levels of tightening. But the writer knows how to write about horses so well that I don’t care about the rest. The author, it says it’s by Terrance Walter but seriously that is not a name, must be from a horse farm or something. He has this amazing scene where horses from the chick’s family farm get loose and end up running through the streets of Chicago.

“Each horse in its turn, no more than half a footstep from the next, rumbled and thundered down the clapboard road at a speed that said anyone caught in their path risked the pain of death. Their brown coats heaved and swelled as their breathes reached peak to bring their trampling hooves down upon the earth like rail splitting hammers. Their legs pulsing as their hearts strained to keep the pace of freedom.”

Gets me every time. Reading it is almost like being in the dream. Almost like running. My breath always get a bit fast and I have to close my eyes to calm down before I set off any alarms on my monitoring machine in the night. That Terrance, he knows what it is to miss running.

“Corny, does running ever hurt?” I asked my sister.

“Shut up, Vicks,” she said and swatted at the back of my head. A moment later, “After sometimes. Like muscle cramps.” I nodded and wondered if massages would help, like the ones I get from my physical therapist.

Of course, I can’t think about running for too long before I also start to think about The Wind. No. Not the actual wind. Her. Edwina Moran, otherwise known as The Wind or, if you’re friends with her like my sister is, Winnie. She’s the star of my school’s track team, hence the nickname; which is probably good because a name like Edwina could cause you problems even in a school as touchy-feely as mine.

“Sweetie, you’re going to love it,” my mom said.

“I have to write an essay about what fears I have about starting high school? Seriously?” I asked and rolled my eyes.

“Everyone is scared to start high school honey. It is a big thing in life,” she replied.

“Ugh. I’m not scared though. Are there doctors with bone saws?” She shook her head no, “Then I'll be fine.”

I go to a private Quaker school. It is fairly fancy and known for good academics. My parents wanted me to go to a school that not only had great facilities for me and my wheels but an “attitude of acceptance and appreciation,” my mom had said. They started my sister Corny there first to help me get in. Ok, her name isn’t Corny. It is Cornelia, but I call her Corny because I have be the annoying younger sibling somehow. I guess that really says it all about my school though. They appreciate people like me and my fellow students have names like Edwina. There’s a dude in my art class named Zeus, my teachers all go by their first names and one of them is called Harmony. Yeah, that paints the whole picture right there I think.

“Hey dude, nice wheels,” Zeus said in all seriousness, admiring my motorized wheelchair. “My uncle’s chair has, like, voice commands.” He nodded to himself a beat after he spoke.

“Until they make a chair that will take a shit for me, voice command is pretty useless to me.” I said.

“That is gross, dude. And hilarious,” Zeus chuckled in a voice too deep for a fifteen-year old but perfect for someone named after a God.

Back to Edwina. Winnie is the love of my young life. I don’t imagine I’ll marry her or pursue her cross country to college in Washington state, where she’s planning to go according Corny. I just imagine that I’m going to love her as long as I can.  And in all likelihood from a distance of about twenty feet. That’s the distance from the handicapped square where I sit in my wheels and watch her and the starting line of the track. I don’t go to watch the track team practice every day. That would be super obvious. But I do go to every meet. The coach sometimes calls me their mascot and ruffles my hair like I’m four. I resist the urge to bite her every time. After all, we are the Ballentine Bulldogs. Every now and then, Winnie will come say hello to me. I’m polite, but not too friendly. She sometimes says that it is really nice of me to support my sister and that her parents don’t usually come watch her. Once I told her that being good at something could be a curse, like maybe they got bored of watching her win. She said she never thought of that and promptly lost her next race.

“Hey, Vincent,” Edwina said just a few minutes before the start of Corny’s race.

“Hey, Winnie. You think Corny can win today?” I liked to keep conversation light and I tried very hard not to stare at her perfect face for too long. I focused on keeping my breaths even.

“Yeah, their top shortie isn’t here and she seems psyched,” Edwina nodded towards Corny shaking her arms out at the starting blocks.

“Hmm, yeah,” I wanted to ask her something clever. Something that would make her keep talking to me but not scream I’m in love with you! “Are you parents here?” Not my best work.

“My mom is supposed to come actually. But she’s always late. We call it ‘Betsy-time’ because it’s like normal time plus two hours. Laters,” and then she was gone.

I love to watch Edwina start a race. She’s a mid-distance runner, so like 800 meters, or two laps around the track. She never tries to be first off the blocks. I watch her watching her competitors, side-eyeing their stances and measuring them up. I can’t say for sure, but I feel like she hesitates a split second off the blocks just so she can see people start to pass her. Then The Wind lengthens her strides and ever so slowly inches to be even with whomever is in front. They might think they’re fine, that they can take her in the last 30 meters or something. They are wrong. The Wind then blows past them, barely speeding up then seemingly exploding down the line to the finish. It is magnificent.

“She’s pretty great, huh?” a voice next me said.

“Yes,” I said breathlessly, lost in admiration. I realized my mistake and looked up. A woman who had to be Edwina’s mother stood there with matching hazel eyes, rounded nose, and lips that thinned into a line when her mouth was closed.

“I love her too,” Betsy said. “But I’m not sure she’ll ever really know it. What about you?”

“Probably not.” I said and returned my eyes to the track where Edwina had, of course, just won her race. Betsy placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

“Stranger things have happened. I got here on time after all.”

Writers are People too.

(when I say "writer life", I really just mean my writer life, such as it is, and totally biased by my own experience)

Writers are weird.

And I mean that with total love and affection. Since I'm not editing, why don't I write about why we are weird instead.

Sometimes there's a lot of what I call "shelf measuring" wherein writers do a couple of different things depending on their persuasion. A writer who is a total book nerd will try to find out if you are a book nerd too. Do you go to second hand shops and look for copies of books you already own but with strange, one-off covers? Have you run out of room in your house for all your books?

A writer who considers anyone less "literary" than themselves not worth their time will attempt to suss out your feelings on Gogol because Tolstoy is too mainstream. These are basically hipster writers who in addition to their snobbery over the classics hoard their new writer finds.

Writers who are more academic will ask about your influences and offer you a copy of a book about writing by a professor type because you need anchoring in structured practice.

There are the writers who love words; they know a lot of wonderful quotes, work tirelessly on phrasing, and want to know if you've read any great wordsmith's they've yet to discover.

Many writers have a favorite genre or time period of writing that they get a bit of tunnel vision about. They'll tell you lovingly about the depth of X during the Y or describe a genre in such a way to make it all encompassing of the human experience, with or without unicorns.

There are the fan writers who have a favorite book they just have to tell everyone changed their life and is the reason they decided to become a writer and they're dying to know if you've read it. Note if you have, purchase a pot of tea, not just a cup...and a piece of cake so you can chew thoughtfully.

We also all get writer's block. Some people say they never get this. They are lying. It may not feel like a block to them because they've got a plot map or they're taking time off to look back at things afresh or they're just too busy to write for a little while. In my book, those are all blocks. My kids are walking, talking writing blocks because they often physically bar me from the page. Recently, I saw a quote that I am not going to bother googling (you do that, I wrote this, it took time) that basically said writers are people who have a harder time writing than normal people. I'd put money on that idea meaning slightly different things to every writer. To me, it means that I care too much about my writing. I want it to be good the first time. Really good. I don't want to go back and make it better (yes, i live in the place with the unicorns). To another writer it may be that finishing an idea, an arc is hard because our plots can't just be regular old character meets problem finds resolution. Some writers want to weave a plot, throw you a curve ball, toss in some revelatory knowledge via the subtext of that chic-lit.

Then there's the complaining. Oh my. We love it. About how hard it is. About editing. About finding this and making that and sending and submitting. Up. Hill. Both ways. Kvetching. But at least we do it together. It's good. How could we deal with all the rejection otherwise?

Some of us...ok, all of us, are competitive, though to drastically different degrees. You want to be happy for your friend that just got an agent, a deal, a publishing date. And you are Happy. But you're also jealous. When your profession requires soul baring, when your daily writing life is spent trying to create some kind of art via scratching marks on a page, it is hard to feel like "no one" is ever going to see it or appreciate it. There are naturally more competitive and petty writers out there, but that's true of humanity. Mostly there are good folks.

Procrastinating might be a thing too, but I wouldn't know.

She Sells Windbreaks by the Seashore

WARNING contains: me, french fried potato chips, gross generalizations about whole countries of people, fast cars, weather, steamed mussels, cows and ice cream. 

Recently, my family went 'on holiday' to Northern Cornwall in the hopes my husband could relive a bit of his childhood and take our boys rock pooling. For those unfamiliar with the British coast, let me explain that there are three kinds of beaches. There are pebble ones, sandy ones, and rocky/sandy combos. There are also cliffs. Lots of cliffs. The coast here is often very dramatic. The land just ends. Drops off into sea and craggy outcroppings of pointy hard things. It's fairly spectacularly beautiful. But it isn't relaxing per se. Not a coast line that screams "come, lie down, relax, and have a drink." Not that every beach needs to be a soft place for drunken sun worship, there's a time and a place for gorgeous geology porn. 

North Cornwall has all three kinds of beach. I particularly enjoyed one where a steep decent led to a rocky area that also had a lovely sandy stretch at low tide. It reminded me a lot of the coast line in Goonies aka the American North West. And at every beach we went to there were some opportunities for rock pooling otherwise known as staring into pools or tepid salt water and shoving nets and sticks at things. We poked a lot of limpets, found several anemones, spotted retreating crabs, and admired large groups of mussels (which made my hub and I hungry quite frankly). 

It is the end of May and in most of the US this means summer. But in the UK it is still sorta spring and the temperatures even in the far south of the country are by no means sweaty. The warmest day was about 68F. This does not stop Brits from dressing and acting like it is summer at the seaside though. On one beach, where my family and I were all in windbreakers and long pants, I saw people in bathing suits, bikinis included, and shorts/t-shirts. Then again, many people also had set up windbreaks. If you don't know what this is, it is essentially a long strip of plastic with sticks at intervals that one can set up in a semi-circle (or nearly a full circle for the privacy driven) to shield you and your family/friends from the cool, relentless blowing wind off the sea. Perhaps in there it feels much warmer. But these only work on the sandy beaches. I saw a few people making do with them sort of propped up by rocks on one rocky beach. More often though, on the rocky beaches, people put down towels, lie down, and then proceed to pretend that they are some how comfortable. It is astonishing to see someone lying on rocks, cigarette in hand, lounging as though they might be totally relaxed while rocks jut in to their every bone and muscle. 

One thing they've got going for them though is that there is ice cream everywhere. At one point, I could see four different ice cream dispensaries. That's dedication to dairy my friends. Which isn't hard because I also saw in excess of a thousand cows over four days. 

In one seaside village, that's known as a foodie spot, I was told there would a forty minute wait to sit at the locally famous fish and chips place. I didn't wait. Not because I had to two hungry kids but because whilst I'm sure it was good, I cannot image fried fish and potato to be worth such a lengthy wait. I've waited forty minutes for profiteroles that literally made me cry with delight. I've waited forty minutes for all you can eat crab legs. But I've never waited that long for food readily available on the high street of every village in Britain. Ok, maybe if they'd had hushpuppies, I'd have at least gotten take out!

Things overheard:

At a remote tea house on a cliff, miles from anywhere, a woman asked, "Do you do chips?" When she was told they did not, she asked if anywhere nearby did. I found this hysterical for numerous reasons. The Brits and their chips. The idea that you'd come all the way out to a wild, remote beach only to be foiled for lack of fried potato. And the knowledge that the British think anything over a two hour drive is half a day's journey when many American commute that distance TWICE a day. The closest chips would be a twenty minute drive. 

A conversation across a local cafe between scruffy old men about Formula One racing. I didn't understand half of what they said but it made me smile because if they'd just been talking about NASCAR, it could've been the North Carolina coast instead. 

Some pre-teens talking about the weather. Not tv or film. Not celebrities or video games. Grousing about the timing of the rain, the type of rain, the slant of the rain like old people. I guess the British can discuss the weather, in depth, at any age. 

Not an overheard thing, but I spent a lot of the trip trying to figure out how to say the names of places. Growing up in America, I took for granted that Cherokee is pronounced CHAIR-oh-Kee. I giggled at foreigners twisting it every which way but "right,"  Just as I was laughed at when I assumed that Tintagel would be pronounced Tint-AH-gail or gull rather than the "right" way of Ten-TAH-gle. I like place names in Cornwall. Lots of them sound like pirate insults - you Pendogett, Budey, Pounstocker! 

Overall, I now understand why the Brits love a Florida holiday the way so many Americans love to go to the Bahamas or Mexico. It's far warmer, softer, and closer to chips. 

A Very Merry (British) Birthday to You!

WARNING contains: cake, ice cream, parcels, napkins, nostalgia, hindsight, delusions, and a bit of woe.

British Birthday parties are odd to me. Or perhaps just the ones I've been to. But having been to six or so, I'm going to call myself expert and move forward in my ignorance.

First, there's "pass the parcel," a game wherein a present is wrapped in numerous layers of paper and often sweets (they say "sweeties", bless their hearts) or little prizes are inserted between the layers; sometimes in each layer and sometimes at random. It is a bit like hot potato or musical chairs in that music plays while the parcel is passed and when it stops, whomever is holding the package takes a layer off. This game is filled with stress and awkwardness. More to the point, everyone knows the birthday child will get the real present in the end. For me, this game causes the gnashing of teeth and pondering the sanity of the person who did the wrapping. Oh and my hub wants it known that he thinks we don't play this game in America because it doesn't rhyme in Amuhrican.

Then there's the not opening presents. On the one hand, I see the wisdom and the cultural difference at play. God forbid a child open a gift and exclaim that they don't want another stupid book. But on the other hand, I kinda like seeing the kid open stuff. The problem in America is when there's WAY too much stuff. And this could be a problem in the UK too as a number of parties I've been to post my oldest starting school the parents have invited the entire class of kids (that's 30 kiddos who frequently bring siblings). What we do in the USA is keep family presents out of the party presents. We open those separately. We also threaten our children with pain of death if they so much as look disappointed in a present from a guest.

The most ponderous thing though is the birthday cake. Or rather the lack of it. Oh no, they do bring out a cake and sing; they're not beasts. But once candles are blown out the cake is whisked away. Then it is cut into slices which are individually wrapped in a napkin then placed in a party bag or or stacked neatly on a tray by the door. The left over bits are then passed around the grownups as each gets a little bite of the cake. There may even be an extra cake lying in wait just for the proper number of slices. I've asked around and no one seems to know exactly when this started or why. Some suppose it was 1930s decadence that left no room in wee tummies for cake. A few guess at a post-WWII-rationing thing when perhaps the cake might have been so precious one would want to send it home so each family member might have a taste.

If you're British and reading this I'm here to beg you to stop crushing the joy of childhood birthday parties.* I have such wonderful memories of getting a too-large square (often American cakes are more like a tray bake and so the 'slices' are squares) of cake as I rocked in a rickety plastic chair and squirmed with excitement to see if there might be ice cream too. A little plate of cake with some unnatural shade of frosting being subsumed by a rapidly melting scoop of chemically flavored vanilla ice cream. Heaven quite frankly. Oh then there was that heavenly invention - the store-bought, crisco based icing lathered, ice-cream cake that if not left to properly thaw had to be chainsawed into pieces. These are what birthday dreams are made of - cake and presents people!

Now you may be asking yourself if these barbarians feed their guests at all and rest assured they do. This little luncheon tradition may be in fact, as mentioned above, the reason for the sending home of cake. Because while at an afternoon party in America guests would never expect more than snacks (PLUS CAKE!), here a wee smorgasbord is the norm. The following will be present at every party (except the one I threw last year because I just didn't know! I'm sorry!!): ham and butter sandwiches, cheese or jam sandwiches that will also have butter, mini-sausages and/or sausage rolls, some form of potato chip/crisp/shaped product, cheese, grapes or easy peel oranges, juice boxes, and some fairy cakes (these are cupcakes with minimal icing) and/or biscuits/cookies. Note the number of little squares of sandwich available will far exceed the guest list. No idea why. They aren't even good sandwiches really and I've confirmed this fact with parents. They are meant to be "child friendly" foods, nothing too...flavorful.

As for what the kids do, there's often a bouncy castle or someone in charge of games. One recent party had a conga line. Another had a magician who did a show in two parts on either side of the snacks and candle blowing out. Because they're so many kids, they can be rather cacophonous affairs. I'm already dead set against inviting every kid in eldest's class for that reason. That number of kids is overwhelming for him and it means the autism spectrum kid in his class can't participate because the noise it too much for him (though bless his parents, they bring him to every single one just to try and end up sitting outside with him).

Now, I'm not going to get in to the Party Princess/Clown/Magician phenomenon because it's really not much different in the US. More and more people want someone else to entertain the hoards of children at a birthday party rather than the stress of doing it themselves. I concur. American parties have become, in some circles, very elaborate and competitive affairs in recent years. So some sad sandwiches and cake with paper glued to it without the pressure of acting overjoyed at every gift is in some ways a relief and, dare I say it, quaint. But I also have this little sad part of me that wants my kids to have the kind of parties I had as a kid. You usually invited your best friends to do something special with you at your house or someplace exotic like McD's or the bowling alley. I had a fair few parties at home. We played games or just ran around a playground and ate at picnic tables.

None of the above is criticism, really. I have yet to go to a party that my kid didn't enjoy once the initial shock wave of noise washed over him. When I've compared notes with British parents about parties, we each like some things about the other tradition and we all agree that "pass the parcel" is torture and should be forgotten. So at the next birthday party I throw, I'm going to mix things together I think**. Invite maybe 10 kids to a playground near our house in the afternoon and give them cake and snacks but take the presents home to unwrap later. I might even make a few sandwiches.


*It has occurred to me that because of the ready availability and consumption of iced pastries and cakes in everyday British life that a birthday cake is not a big deal. Childhood here is marked by regular cake consumption! Also, every birthday cake I've had here is of the store-bought, fondant covered variety. At the time I didn't understand, but now I see why the parents at a party I threw last year were so delighted by my homemade cake. It was a really tasty cake, like you'd get at a tea house, rather than a cake for show. We have those in America too, but no self-respecting Southern Mama would let her child's birthday pass without baking them a cake even if it's from a box mix!

**UPDATE: I ended up doing an indoor, bouncy castle party at 11am and having brunch foods for grown-ups plus s few snacks (sausage rolls and fruit) then doling out squares of chocolate cake with chocolate icing to children who asked for more. The adults thanked me so many times for feeding them and not just the kids I lost count. I took the presents home still wrapped and my kid didn't mind at all. Hybrid, cross-pond parties y'all. It's the way forward.

The Most Seasonally Affected People

WARNING CONTAINS: gross exaggerations about whole nations of people, weather, more weather, a pinch of meteorologic description, mocking, sarcasm, genuine admiration, and a bit of me. 

I've been meaning to the write this since the weather first began to improve, i.e. not be cloudy and 7C/45F and probably rain everyday. But now that things have really sprung, hehe, get it spring/sprung, the Brits are at a whole other level. Let me introduce you to the most seasonally affected people in the world.*

The first day it was brightly sunny for a whole six hours and there was nary a cloud in the sky, though it was still about 9C...ok, I'll be generous and say 10C/50F, I saw someone in a tank top. Sunglasses became conspicuous and at the entrance to the grocery store I saw displays of cute watering cans. Spring flowers were out for sale, ready to be placed on windowsills in the hopes that their mere presence would keep the sun's attention. 

Then there was the day when it was reasonably sunny, a few cumulus clouds trying to bully their way into a shower, but moving on towards a mild 12C/53F. There were shorts adorned and many an al fresco lunch spotting. Garden center (like a nursery in America) parking lots were full. There were gardening gloves of every color and shiny sheers in the windows of the hardware stores along side the displays of Easter everything. 

Whereupon the temperatures broke 16C/61F and the sky held nothing but the most distant wisps of cirrus clouds, all of Britain took to the outdoors, threw up their heads and sighed in unison, "Ah, spring!" People milled about in the sunbeams muttering, "What a beautiful day," to themselves in marked awe. Garden centers had lines/queues twenty patient Brits deep. A Bank Holiday spontaneously broke out. And fire hydrants were burst to relieve the heat! 

Ok, so that last one didn't happen. They don't "bust hydrants" here unless it gets to be what I call "Melty Brit weather" or when temps reach over 30C/86F (that's not a joke).  What does occur though feels like a weight being lifted from nearly every person. They are so much cheerier when it is sunny. The sun here feels warmer. Not warmer than Atlanta in July, but warmer than DC during cherry blossoms. And it seems to heat the British from the inside out. They smile much more easily. Each neighbor dying to tell you what has started to bloom in the garden they take such pride in daily. The parents outside the school gate declare that the MET office (that's THE meteorology office) has proclaimed that things will only get better; surely a heat wave over Easter will bring temperatures to a rapturous 24C/75F.

Early April also brings a long school holiday, two weeks or more, and several of the aforementioned and sacred Bank Holidays. Every garden center, National Trust house and garden, library, town/village council, church, and museum have some thing going on. I've mentioned before that school holidays where I live are a bit bewildering. Every regular activity for families stops but there are three dozen to take their place. Just today, a Wednesday, not even a Bank Holiday there are at least 24 special kid/family events on in Surrey county. There's Shaun the Sheep at Kew Gardens, pirate themed art at a few spots (is that Eastery? Springy? Arg!), Egg trails, Bunny hunts, arts and crafts, and a mill-your-own flour event. Yes. Mill your own flour. 

For all my teasing, I do find it endearing that a people so cursed with grey, rain, damp, and chill at least genuinely appreciate it when the leaven in the lump, i.e. spring and summer, stand gloriously before them. A good spring day does make one feel lucky to be alive and appreciate this green island** as well as it's truly, madly, deeply seasonally affect population just a wee bit more.


*did you miss the warning at the top about exaggeration? deal with it. 
** Ireland, just for today they get to use that color too. It is pretty darn green. 

Notes on a Small island (apologies to Mr.Bryson)

WARNING: contains me, gross exaggerations about whole countries of people, traffic, maps, swears, and embarrassing compliments.

A few things that are "quaint" and cute and a bit mad about living in the UK aka a conglomeration of three countries plus numerous tiny islands as well as the northern quarter of a large-ish neighboring island. 

These are the British Isles set into a map of the US. It is to scale. England is the bottom right 1/3, sorta. So imagine that England (~50k sq.miles) is a little less than the size of North Carolina (~52k sq.miles). 

We'll start with a favorite subject, the radio. National radio (BBC) has it quirks.

So let's imagine for a moment that you're in Charlotte, NC and getting into your car for the morning commute. The traffic report comes on and you hear that there is a massive accident that has caused huge backups....in northern Virginia. 

This happened to me two weeks ago on a bright, beautiful morning when upon turning on the radio I heard that a road was closed because the snow gates were down. The highways and byways here are numbered and for some reason you're meant to know all the numbers and that the bigger ones often stretch the length of the country (like inter-state 40 or 20, only a fifth the length;). So I'm meant to know that the M9 is in Scotland some 360 some odd miles away. Even though I regularly use the M3, not in Scotland. 

Highways (aka Motorways) here have signs, just like in America, that can warn you of traffic jams and closures ahead. WAY ahead. I can be on the A1 near London and a sign will say that the A1 is closed at the junction with the A19. What it doesn't say is that the A19 is a four hour drive northward. 

Clearly, this is, for me, a bit of a hindrance and I've basically taken to ignoring all warning signs that don't say "Stop Now." I drove down a little road for ages a few weeks ago passing signs that read "ROAD CLOSED AHEAD" for literally 15 miles before I finally came to the closure, which wasn't really a closure at all, just a weak bridge that only passenger cars were allowed to cross, one lane at a time. But it wasn't until a few miles before the closure that the signs specifically noted the closure was only for HGVs (heavy good vehicles!). I guess austerity measures have really bitten into the sign budget. 

From a television show perspective, I like the whole tiny island feel. It's like the 80s in America where one great episode or miniseries would be the talk of the town. When the recently shown "Wolf Hall" aired here (miniseries of the book featuring Thomas Cromwell's perspective on Henry VII, starring Damian Lewis and some great stage actors, two thumbs up y'all) it was on the cover of the major newspapers. It was widely discussed and known. While some shows in America still generate this, it is fairly rare for it be SO seemingly universal. You wouldn't have to find your "Breaking Bad" buddy at work. Everyone would know Walter's latest dastardly deeds. 

Friday was Red Nose Day here, that's a culminating day for a long build up of fund raising events for the UK's Comic Relief charity. And every school does something. Everyone watches at least some of the special telethon in the evening, even if only to see celebrities do silly things (do a search for 'red nose day skit' and enjoy some laughs). That's kind of a great feeling and something I think America has suffered from the loss of - feeling connected to the rest of the country. 

Oh, British people, I can hear you rolling your eyes and muttering about the London-centric media and politics and that Scotland almost went its own way. But I'm not sure you can fathom how a person from North Carolina and a person from Oregon (3000 miles apart) can simultaneously feel "American" and yet have extremely different lives, outlooks, cultural touchstones, and experiences. But then if you push them, if you place them in say France and someone America-bashes, they will each leap to the deference of their homeland. It's weird. Nuts really that a nation should be so vast and under one flag. Ask the Chinese, they get it. 

There is something to this conglomeration of three small, proud nations (yes, I'm deliberate leaving out Northern Ireland, it's not a nation,sry) that lends itself to a feeling of community that is different from anywhere else I've lived or visited. There is camaraderie, even if it just over listening to the Archers on the radio, wearing a red nose, or being truly and deeply interested in the weather two hundred miles away. It is almost as if you all might like one another. Shhh, I promise not to tell. 

(next installment, coming soon, a teaser: The Most Seasonally Affected People)