One of the advantages of living in another country is that you can acquire new traditions while continuing to observe those of your own that you enjoy. November already blessed with two of my favorite traditions - bonfire night on November 5th and Thanksgiving on, er, the last Thursday in the month - now brings a new one, the start of Christmas Fair season.
A Christmas Fair is essentially a flea market with mulled wine. It's a forum for the locals to shed the detritus - used toys, old china, ruined books and so forth - that accumulates over the year, and it's an excuse for the adults to get together for a few glasses of Christmas cheer. It's delicious, the transition from November's immutable grey into the warm yellow light of a church hall, sloughing off frozen layers and unwinding a damp scarf, the exchange of good-natured insults with the fathers of your children's friends.
The Christmas Fair is the perfect way to bring out the festive spirit that has eluded me in recent years. It's simple, homey, and about as un-commercial as you can get. There's no shortage of ways to spend your money, but you're generally forking over 10 or 20p at a time, not ten and twenty pound notes, and you get mince pies and bits of candy for your hard-earned dosh. Santa visits and distributes largesse to the children, good and otherwise. The lady manning the toy stall let our children have a few extra things even though they didn't have the cash. There was a tombola, a raffle and a cake stall. It was a perfect way to spend the short November afternoon.
And now that the fireworks have died down, most of the Thanksgiving turkey is gone and the last vestiges of pumpkin pie scrubbed from the carpet, I'm finally ready for Christmas.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Death's Headstone
I have always been fascinated by graveyards. Not in a morbid, creepy kind of way, but because they are full of things to stimulate the imagination - an explorer's ancient marker here, a soldier's broken angel there. Multiple generations of the same family buried in successive ranks over the course of several hundred years.
Caroline's Saturday afternoon gymnastics class is at a school at the far end of the planet, a good 30 minute walk from our house. No form of public transportation takes us close enough to bother. It is too far to walk home during her class, and there is little to do in the area but wait in the schoolyard and try not to look too suspicious. Most weeks, a friend with both a vehicle and a daughter in the class brings her back, but this week I had to hang around to take her home.
It has been extremely cold here lately - the temperature has been hovering around 0C (that's 32F for the dysmetric). That might not sound so cold to those used to Pennsylvania's appalling winters, but you also have to factor in the damp. There is a meteorological anomaly that occurs regularly here - a kind of freezing fog that permeates everything it touches, chilling you to the bone. If you've ever stepped into the freezing mist emanating from a walk-in freezer, you'll know what I mean.
Saturday, despite gloves and scarf and hat and five layers of clothing, was chilly, and after 30 minutes of sitting in the schoolyard at the pint-sized picnic tables reading 'Wolf Hall' (a very good book, by the way), I needed a walk to restore the circulation. Just beside the school is an ancient church, and in the churchyard, a cemetery. Some of the stones near the church entrance date from the late 1700's, so I assume the church is at least that old, unless they built the cemetery first, which seems unlikely.
After my initial excitement at finding two headstones from 1777, I was disappointed to discover that many of the other graves are no older than the mid-1800's, and most seem to be from 1940's and onward. Still, the graveyard stretched on and on and it was a grey, slightly misty day, the last quivering leaves rattling in the ancient oaks; it was just the sort of day for wandering in a quiet cemetery and having a good think, so wander and think I did.
As I was about to head back to the school and its cramped benches, I noticed one small white marble marker, unremarkable but for one of the surnames on it: De'ath.
Seriously. Someone named Death is buried in the cemetery next to the little school where my daughter has her gymnastics class.
Imagine going through life with that name dragging behind you like a length of chain. Oh, sure, it was probably cool around Halloween ("Hey, fellas, Death just called, he's coming to the party tonight, and he's got killer weed!"), but most of the time, I expect that it must've been something of a burden. ("I'm sorry, Mr. Death, we just don't think you're cut out to work in sales here at IBM." or "Do you, Death, take this woman?"). I'd have thought the poor guy would've changed his name. Maybe the apostrophe was added to soften it a bit. "No, it's pronounced De-AATH." In any case, I took a photo and had a good chuckle as I directed my frostbitten steps back toward the school.
Thanks, Death!
Caroline's Saturday afternoon gymnastics class is at a school at the far end of the planet, a good 30 minute walk from our house. No form of public transportation takes us close enough to bother. It is too far to walk home during her class, and there is little to do in the area but wait in the schoolyard and try not to look too suspicious. Most weeks, a friend with both a vehicle and a daughter in the class brings her back, but this week I had to hang around to take her home.
It has been extremely cold here lately - the temperature has been hovering around 0C (that's 32F for the dysmetric). That might not sound so cold to those used to Pennsylvania's appalling winters, but you also have to factor in the damp. There is a meteorological anomaly that occurs regularly here - a kind of freezing fog that permeates everything it touches, chilling you to the bone. If you've ever stepped into the freezing mist emanating from a walk-in freezer, you'll know what I mean.
Saturday, despite gloves and scarf and hat and five layers of clothing, was chilly, and after 30 minutes of sitting in the schoolyard at the pint-sized picnic tables reading 'Wolf Hall' (a very good book, by the way), I needed a walk to restore the circulation. Just beside the school is an ancient church, and in the churchyard, a cemetery. Some of the stones near the church entrance date from the late 1700's, so I assume the church is at least that old, unless they built the cemetery first, which seems unlikely.
After my initial excitement at finding two headstones from 1777, I was disappointed to discover that many of the other graves are no older than the mid-1800's, and most seem to be from 1940's and onward. Still, the graveyard stretched on and on and it was a grey, slightly misty day, the last quivering leaves rattling in the ancient oaks; it was just the sort of day for wandering in a quiet cemetery and having a good think, so wander and think I did.
As I was about to head back to the school and its cramped benches, I noticed one small white marble marker, unremarkable but for one of the surnames on it: De'ath.
Seriously. Someone named Death is buried in the cemetery next to the little school where my daughter has her gymnastics class.
Imagine going through life with that name dragging behind you like a length of chain. Oh, sure, it was probably cool around Halloween ("Hey, fellas, Death just called, he's coming to the party tonight, and he's got killer weed!"), but most of the time, I expect that it must've been something of a burden. ("I'm sorry, Mr. Death, we just don't think you're cut out to work in sales here at IBM." or "Do you, Death, take this woman?"). I'd have thought the poor guy would've changed his name. Maybe the apostrophe was added to soften it a bit. "No, it's pronounced De-AATH." In any case, I took a photo and had a good chuckle as I directed my frostbitten steps back toward the school.
Thanks, Death!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wills and Kate
As you probably know by now, the Royal Family today announced the engagement of Prince William, heir to the British monarchy, and Kate Middleton, soon to be heiress to 50% of the British Monarchy. Reactions were mixed, which is to say that the vast majority of people I spoke to were either totally ignorant of the goings on or completely apathetic about it. Some were ignorant until I told them, and then they were apathetic. This does not bode well for the spectacle of the wedding, but I'm sure the tourists will make up the numbers and I'll be right there with them.
Sky news interviewed friends of Wills today. I wonder what is required to qualify one to be a friend of the Prince. Good teeth and hair seem to be the main discernible qualities. I imagine the truly privileged like Wills and Harry and their friends are an appallingly vapid bunch, and that when they get together, the combined emotional maturity of the gathering to be something on par with a room full of Paris Hiltons. This is probably unfair, though. I don't actually know any of the truly privileged, so my judgement may be off. Somehow, I doubt it, though.
About 10 minutes after the announcement, a friend from my old neighborhood emailed me to marvel at the goings on. "Aren't the royals basically just bleeding the taxpayers dry?" he asked, quite reasonably. Actually, as it turns out, not exactly. Apparently, the Queen and the Prince of Wales (William's father) cost the UK taxpayers about £42M per year, well, according to Wikipedia, anyway. And they don't pay tax on some or all of their income. While £42M a year is nothing to sneeze at, even assuming this is true, I'd say they're a bargain - without the Queen, would anyone come here to visit? London's a somewhat grey, damp place with a soon-to-be 20% tax on pretty much everything. Surely the mere presence of a queen and all the trappings of the monarchy draw more than that a year in revenue.
Regardless, I hope that I'll get to see something of the wedding. I'm sure my name's already on the A list and they're deciding whether to seat me next to the Duke of Norfolk or the Earl of Essex. Decisions, decisions.
Sky news interviewed friends of Wills today. I wonder what is required to qualify one to be a friend of the Prince. Good teeth and hair seem to be the main discernible qualities. I imagine the truly privileged like Wills and Harry and their friends are an appallingly vapid bunch, and that when they get together, the combined emotional maturity of the gathering to be something on par with a room full of Paris Hiltons. This is probably unfair, though. I don't actually know any of the truly privileged, so my judgement may be off. Somehow, I doubt it, though.
About 10 minutes after the announcement, a friend from my old neighborhood emailed me to marvel at the goings on. "Aren't the royals basically just bleeding the taxpayers dry?" he asked, quite reasonably. Actually, as it turns out, not exactly. Apparently, the Queen and the Prince of Wales (William's father) cost the UK taxpayers about £42M per year, well, according to Wikipedia, anyway. And they don't pay tax on some or all of their income. While £42M a year is nothing to sneeze at, even assuming this is true, I'd say they're a bargain - without the Queen, would anyone come here to visit? London's a somewhat grey, damp place with a soon-to-be 20% tax on pretty much everything. Surely the mere presence of a queen and all the trappings of the monarchy draw more than that a year in revenue.
Regardless, I hope that I'll get to see something of the wedding. I'm sure my name's already on the A list and they're deciding whether to seat me next to the Duke of Norfolk or the Earl of Essex. Decisions, decisions.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Up in Flames
At this moment, there are fireworks out the front window, out the back window, and off in the distance in all directions. It's like living in Baghdad. Or inside a bag of microwave popcorn.
November 5th is Bonfire Night, a grand tradition that dates from 1606 when the members of Parliament passed a law calling for a public celebration of Guy Fawkes' failed attempt to blow them up the year before. (The Act also curried favor with King James by crediting him with guaranteeing continued peace and prosperity with the "plentiful progeny proceeding out of his royal loins"). The law was repealed about 200 years ago, but the the Brits love a good effigy burning, so on 5th November the populace still burn things in huge bonfires, and what they don't burn, they blow up.
This is my new favorite holiday.
Right now, there are at least five houses that I can see letting off fireworks. The one out the front to the left is practically a professional display. They have fast little ones, fairies streaking across the night sky. They have big thumping ones, the kind you feel in your chest. They have whistlers, and sparklers and big colorful bursts. They've been going on for about ten minutes, and it's just so cool to sit in your living room with a mug of tea, a fat Brazilian guy in an Elvis suit staggering his way tunelessly through "Viva Las Vegas" on X Factor and fireworks out the front window. You have to bear in mind, though, that we live in a pretty densely populated area, so I'm expecting one to come flying through the window at any minute. Some are so close that I can actually smell them. Bits of flaming debris are falling onto the roof of the house across the street.
The nice thing about fireworks in November is that they start early. It's dark here by 6, so we ate an early dinner and at 5.30, set out for the local park with Michael (Caroline is at a friend's birthday sleepover). It was a lovely evening, mild and cheery. The heat from the bonfire tightened our eyelips and dried our lips from a hundred yards away. We drank wine from plastic cups. We chatted with friends. We bought a kitschy light up toy for Michael, who ran around with his little mates. While the fireworks were going off he sat on my shoulders and marveled at them in his innocent little boy voice.
Caroline and the party girls went to the park, too, and we ran into them afterwards. It was odd, bumping into my daughter and her friends out on the town for the evening, watching her scamper off with them, grinning broadly, her parents forgotten.
She's growing up; growing out, molting again. She's already left behind the baby that slept on my chest, the toddler that never slept at all, the little girl in pigtails with holes in her smile. Now, a month shy of her ninth birthday, she's starting to shrug off her childish persona, starting to become a preteen. We had a long conversation today about how good food should be an experience involving all five senses, and she understood what I was talking about.
I love watching her metamorphosis, and I love how she's turning out, but every change is bittersweet.
November 5th is Bonfire Night, a grand tradition that dates from 1606 when the members of Parliament passed a law calling for a public celebration of Guy Fawkes' failed attempt to blow them up the year before. (The Act also curried favor with King James by crediting him with guaranteeing continued peace and prosperity with the "plentiful progeny proceeding out of his royal loins"). The law was repealed about 200 years ago, but the the Brits love a good effigy burning, so on 5th November the populace still burn things in huge bonfires, and what they don't burn, they blow up.
This is my new favorite holiday.
Right now, there are at least five houses that I can see letting off fireworks. The one out the front to the left is practically a professional display. They have fast little ones, fairies streaking across the night sky. They have big thumping ones, the kind you feel in your chest. They have whistlers, and sparklers and big colorful bursts. They've been going on for about ten minutes, and it's just so cool to sit in your living room with a mug of tea, a fat Brazilian guy in an Elvis suit staggering his way tunelessly through "Viva Las Vegas" on X Factor and fireworks out the front window. You have to bear in mind, though, that we live in a pretty densely populated area, so I'm expecting one to come flying through the window at any minute. Some are so close that I can actually smell them. Bits of flaming debris are falling onto the roof of the house across the street.
The nice thing about fireworks in November is that they start early. It's dark here by 6, so we ate an early dinner and at 5.30, set out for the local park with Michael (Caroline is at a friend's birthday sleepover). It was a lovely evening, mild and cheery. The heat from the bonfire tightened our eyelips and dried our lips from a hundred yards away. We drank wine from plastic cups. We chatted with friends. We bought a kitschy light up toy for Michael, who ran around with his little mates. While the fireworks were going off he sat on my shoulders and marveled at them in his innocent little boy voice.
Caroline and the party girls went to the park, too, and we ran into them afterwards. It was odd, bumping into my daughter and her friends out on the town for the evening, watching her scamper off with them, grinning broadly, her parents forgotten.
She's growing up; growing out, molting again. She's already left behind the baby that slept on my chest, the toddler that never slept at all, the little girl in pigtails with holes in her smile. Now, a month shy of her ninth birthday, she's starting to shrug off her childish persona, starting to become a preteen. We had a long conversation today about how good food should be an experience involving all five senses, and she understood what I was talking about.
I love watching her metamorphosis, and I love how she's turning out, but every change is bittersweet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)