We had a remarkably lovely July 4th today. I should be in bed in fifteen minutes, so I’ll give you the condensed version. Thane at Fort State beach in Gloucester
For the second time this week, we went to Gloucester to the beaches there. And for the second time, we had a superb time. Today was absolutely perfect: the air was the right temperature, there was the right amount of sun, the sand was everything silicate particles should be and the water was delightful. Today we went to Good Harbor beach – Saturday we went to Fort State. Both were a tremendous amount of fun.
The waves were absolutely great at Good Harbor today – just right for splashing through, or jumping over, or boogie-boarding. They were enticing and entrancing. The boys are just finally getting old enough and sturdy enough to have fun in the waves – Thane with a careful hand on him at all times, and Grey with a newfound resilience as he fell under tumultuous waves and rose again grinning. They’re also old enough that I got to read a little on the beach, and we flew kites (they practically flew themselves). It was a sunny, sandy delight.
We were home just long enough for a farmshare salad and quick shower before packing a tired family into the car (plus two neighbors!) for the fireworks on Wakefield’s Lake Quannapowett. As we laid down our towels, the skies to the North looked dark. As darkness fell, flashes of lightning fought with flashes of illegal fireworks to light up the sky. By the time the display started in earnest, so had the thunderclouds behind it. It was really remarkable. We were completely dry, but lightning laced between clouds directly behind the truly remarkable display of fireworks. I must say, God’s display got the bigger applause from the crowd.
It started raining – bucketing – as we walked quickly back to the car.
But guys… it was SO COOL. Unfortunately, I have zero pictures from today because I was lazy at the beach, and figured that any pictures I could take of (normal) fireworks would be lame. I usually don’t take “scenery” pictures because others have done the exact same ones, only better. And my photography skills have not yet extended to fireworks, which are tricky. I’m terribly sad, but I’m hoping that someone else did much better and you’ll get to see how awesome it is as lightning laces its way through fireworks!
Yes, I now think it is time to become comatose! Happy 4th to all my American friends, and happy day to the rest of you!
I’m not sure I’ve ever gone into my own origin mythology in this venue, but it goes like this. I was born and raised in the middle of nowhere. Well, actually several middles of several nowheres. But I was born in a small village called Tshikaji, in the Kasai Province of what was then the Zaire and what is now the People’s Democratic Republic of the Congo. It was the bush of a rural province in a shockingly underdeveloped country in the very middle of Africa. For context, it took my grandparents six weeks after the fact to learn I had been born… in 1978.
Tshikaji – a long way from Boston in every sense
There is very little emigration from DRC Congo to the US. It got hit hard and early by the AIDS epidemic (that’s where it started, folks). I have met Kenyans, Ghaneans aplenty, Ivorians, South Africans, Algerians… but in my entire adult life, I do not believe I have ever “run into” someone from Congo – even the bustling capital city Kinshasa – never mind the remote corner that nurtured me.
Stoneham Family Fun Day 2011
With that complete not-foreshadowing, let me look back to last weekend. Saturday was the day of the Stoneham Family Fun day! (Yes, that’s what it is really called.) Last year we had fun on the rides, so when a neighbor texted that they were headed down, I rallied the troops and we went down ourselves. To my disappointment, there were hardly any rides but way more booths. Fortifying my children against disappointment with various sugary snacks, we wandered around, talked to our friends, and desultorily walked through the booths. Grey tugged at my arm and said he wanted to show me a mask. I followed him.
The booth he lead me to was full of African art. I stopped, stilled with the stunning familiarity of it. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind, at one glance, this was Congolese art. I went up to the proprietor and asked, “Where is this from?” “Africa,” he replied. My heart ached that this would be the level of detail he finds appropriate. “Where in Africa?” “The Congo.” “DR Congo or Republic of Congo?”* “DR Congo”.
I knew it.
“I was born in DR Congo” I told him. “In Tshikaji, in Kasai”. Congo is a Biiiiiiig country. Odds were very good he was from the capital and had never been that far South.
His face lit up! Ahhh! He cried! My home!
He explained to his lady-companion in Tshiluba – a language I have not heard spoken by a native speaker in 31 years – that I was from his home. Oh, the reunion we had! I trotted out my 15 words: counting to 10, the word for buttermilk, the name that had been given to me as an infant. With every discovery of shared experience there were exclamations of astonishment by both of us. He was from Kasai. He had been to Tshikaji. I believe I caught that he was born in the same hospital I was born in. I named the pastor who had baptized me, and the tears streamed down the face of his lady. They knew that pastor well. I made my son sing the one song I carried over with me, Grey parroting phrases that I myself parroted. The recognition of it washed over them.
I cannot tell you what it meant to me, to meet these people. I cannot tell you how strange it was – to see new versions of art very like the ones my parents have had on their walls at every home I lived in – that are up right now in the living room of their house. I cannot explain the flush of recognition at this language I spoke once, as a child.
I can say that I was tempted to buy one of everything. I bought some things – particularly lovely, or that really reminded me of my childhood. We said farewell. Still dazed by recognition, I called my mom. “You’ll never guess what just happened, mom.” I returned, brought my cell phone to him and he and my mom had a conversation in Tshiluba. (He told me her Tshiluba is very good. She told me she understood maybe one word in four.)
And that is the story of how, under the tolling bells of the carillon in a sleepy New England town, I met Jean Pierre Tshitenge and was transported to another time and place, as far from the Town Square as it is possible to go.
Jean Pierre Tshitenge
*Note: there are conveniently two Congos in Africa. I come from DR Congo or Congo Kinshasha. If you’re older than, say, 50, you probably know it as the Belgian Congo. The name changed from Zaire to “Democratic Republic of Congo” in 1997 as Mobutu Sese Sako’s kleptocracy was toppled. When I applied for a passport in 1999, I entered my place of birth as Zaire because, well, that’s what it was then. The State Department actually noted my birth location as Congo-Brazzaville. The wrong one. I did eventually get it fixed, but I thought it was funny that it was so obscure and rare that the State Department got it wrong.
Between the cornetto and the guitar, I decided I really, really needed a digital tuner. Back when I was a good musician (high school) a digital tuner cost over $100, so I lusted after one but had to borrow the one from high school or tuned to the piano/oboe. ($100 is still plenty of money, but it was even more back then!) These two instruments I’m attempting to learn are hard to tune properly, and I’m playing by myself, and my piano is more than a quarter tone off when it’s been recently tuned. So I decided I was practicing enough to justify spending a hundred bucks on a digital tuner, twenty years after I first wanted one.
That was when I discovered that a digital tuner now costs around $10.
The future is an amazing place.
By the way, after several long and arduous months, I have finally graduated to my first song on guitar. It is ‘Scarborough Fair’. This is a milestone, my friends! I have hope that in a year or two, I might be able to make it through at tempo, as soon as I learn how to do an “F” chord. (Not in my homework for this week – next week!)
Grey is now entering his second great age of firsts. The first, of course, is that period from birth to about two when you get first smiles, first steps, first solids, etc. Then you have the long steep curve of learning until, a scant four years after all the first milestones are met, you start with the second milestones. First day of school, first crush, first real secret, first overnight trip without a relative, etc.
Grey had two big firsts this week, from my point of view. Last night was my husband’s company’s annual summer outing to Fenway park. It transpired that – perhaps – an extra ticket was available. So with a babysitter lined up, we left him to Thane’s tender mercies and brought Grey to his first adventure in Fenway Park. We were in the right field roof, in a terrace. I’d never been up there, but on a very hot and humid solstice, it was breezy and open and lovely. I bought Grey a new t-shirt and he arrived – face-painted with serpents – and I showed him the park and the history and explained the game and the players to him. With intense concentration he learned how to say “Saltalamacchia”. His father, on the other hand, taught him “We want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher” and “We want a catcher, not a belly-scratcher.”
The Sox played the Marlins. Papi hit a grand slam into the bleachers. The Sox trounced the Marlins 15 to 5 with booming hits to all corners and long leisurely innings. The air was warm and fragranced with peanuts, beer, people and the softer fragrances from the not so distant fens.
We stayed through Sweet Caroline – sacred tradition – and turned tired feet home, only crossing our threshold around midnight to find a Wide-Awake Thane. It was a weary household this morning, I assure you.
Grey asks questions during the intermission
But my church was hosting a concert this evening, and I wanted to go. The performer was Patrick Ball, a gracious and funny man. (If you ever have the chance to see him perform – go!) I wanted to go, and I wanted to take my son with me. So I wrested myself off a gossiping front porch and news of babies to head to my church on a sultry Thursday night. Grey picked our seats in the very front. The wise child had figured out where the fan blew hardest.
He had a notebook with him (our church provides them at the front door for kids), so I listened to the stories and the harp while I watched him draw. As an aside, he is already a far more accomplished artist than I am. Not than I was at that age – than I am now. Anyway, he would lay his pencil down for the stories and pick them back up for the songs. He would drape my arms around him like a scarf, still young enough to not be ashamed of my touch, or to lean his back against me as the night drew long.
The harper’s last story had the weight of bronze, of meaning, of power to it and settled heavy on us in the audience. Patrick turned his hand to the twinkling brass harp strings one last time. As he glid through an arpeggio, close to the end of the song, one of his harp-strings sprung and snapped in the heat of the night – springing up in curliques. With impeccable timing, he declared that he was now done. He stepped down and gave Grey his broken brass harp string.
There are moments that you hope are prophetic, that point to a future you would like to see. I watched my son, transfixed by words and music and meaning, take a glimmering bronze harp string from a bard directly under the cross – at the spot where my child had himself been baptized. Your breath catches and you wonder if, maybe, perhaps, there is still some magic left within the world after all.
Grey tugged at his shirt. Patrick leaned his head down kindly to listen. Then says, “Sure, go ahead.”
In a loud and ringing voice, my first-born announced, “I have a joke!”
I am caught between mortification and pride. I have no idea where this joke is going. To infinity and beyond? Terrible punch line? Actually funny? No clue. But standing in front of the unmoving audience that just paid to come listen to a professional storyteller, my son bravely stood, remembered his lines, lifted his voice and told a truly Kindergardeneresque joke. You really have to be under the age of 8 to think it’s funny. But with courage, conviction and timing, he delivers it to the (extremely patient) crowd.
So I don’t know? Portent? Talent? What does it all mean? On the way home, he discussed at length that final story, asking questions about it that showed he had thought about every word. He wondered if maybe he could try something different with music? (I will give him this – the guitar teacher is really tough. I struggle with the lessons – I don’t think someone learning how to learn was going to be successful in that context.) What does it all mean? Should I sign him up and help him pursue these interests? Should I step back and let him blaze his path, watching in fascination (and periodic mortification)?
What remarkable people they are, these children of ours. They come from our love, eat at our tables and judge the world based on a normal we define for them. But such paths they walk are mysteries to us all, and every winding step an adventure and a delight to watch.
Thank you, Patrick, for your brazen harp string and stories, and for firing the imagination of my son.
Wednesday was a long day at work, concluding with a long client meeting. I had hoped that I might talk some of my colleagues into going to a pub with me, but helas, it was not to be. So I resolved to go find that neat looking pub I’d passed earlier in the day (it’s crazy, you can easily walk to visit multiple clients in our London office), Old Doctor Butler’s Head. My thought was that with Euro 2012 going on, in business attire, I would blend right into the crowd of after-dinner-cocktail business folks and feel less conspicuously alone. Ha. I stood out like a middle-aged American woman in an ancient London pub who ordered the steak and kidney pie because it seemed the thing to do. The bartender took pity on me. From where I was sitting, I could watch the game, as well as the perfect pints of Guinness being poured. I liked watching the Guinness. It starts off as pure foaminess, coming very slowly from the taps, and then there’s this fascinating cascade as the beer gathers at the bottom and the bubbles at the top. I digress.
I sat at the bar, with the excellent steak and kidney pie, and between pouring pints the bartender told me stories about it. He talked of the glory days when bankers were superior to bankers today. He told me about the gas lights still scattered throughout the pub. And finally, he invited me to come see the ancient wine-cellar in the 300 year old pub. “It’s brilliant!” he assured me. I picked up my bag, worked my way through the crowd and carefully “minded my head” as I entered the low-ceiling, cold, ancient crypt. It was pretty brilliant. He took pictures of me in the wine cellar and the beer cellar. (He brilliantly interposed his finger in most of them – ah well!) I thanked him, and tipped like an American. He told me we were friends forever, and gave me (ironically!) a coffee mug covered in London beer logos.
I trotted home with a happy step. The bankers had completely ignored me, but the bartender was my friend!
The ancient wine cellar
The next night – Thursday – my colleagues did take me out, which was lovely. But their commutes are even worse than ours, and so we were done by 7ish. It seemed too early to go back to the flat and read, or some such thing, so I decided to catch the late match (Ireland -ugh. Worst team in the tourney!) and dinner at another pub. I had so far been invisible everywhere I’d gone, so I had little concern as I sat down to watch. Then a friendly looking 60 something gentleman with a long flowing silver beard came over to talk to me. He opened his mouth, and sound came out.
I had no idea – not a one – what he was saying. He was speaking English. I focused harder. If I just paid attention, I could certainly work my way through that accent – at least catch one word in three or four? Impenetrable. Every once in a while a word would out, or a complete sentence, and then disappear back into this mellifluence. I smiled and nodded. I did gather that he loved London. He’d live here for more than 20 years. He was from Glasgow. Then the conversation was once again lost. He did not seem too perturbed by my cheerful statements I could not understand a word he was saying. I had no idea if he understood me as poorly as I understood him. Everytime his mates would go out for a smoke, they’d walk by and clap him on the shoulders. They’d grin at me – but none rescued me. Finally, I caught two words, “hotel” and “cab” and finally wondered what I was smiling and nodding to. I decided (my plate of pies finished) that it was time to leave. I bid him farewell, a touch uncomfortable. One of his mates was outside smoking. “Who,” I asked, “was that?” In perfectly intelligible English I was informed I had just dined with Alex. He was a local fixture. He roamed the streets with a shopping cart during the day. He was likely the richest man in the entire section of London. And he had indubitably only charitable notions towards me. And no one else could understand him either. Relieved, I returned to my room to prepare for the morning’s departure.
Winging my way across the Atlantic, glad to be home, glad to stop working. I met with my husband, got my sons, went for ice cream, picked up our first farm share of the season, made a batch of jam and fell to sleep.
When my phone then rang at 4 am, It was actually not so off for my body’s time. I picked it up, assuming it was someone in London who had forgotten I was no longer there. But no. It was a call to say that a young man was on his way, and could I please go stay with his sister while his parents went to meet him? I brought my blankie and my phone, never happier for an interrupted sleep than this. I just got to meet sweet William a scant hour ago – his dark hair the incredible fuzzy-softness of a newborn baby, his six-pounds-and-change a tremendously light bundle wrapped in a stripey hospital blanket.
Last night, I worked late, stayed in my flat and attempted to fix a code bug while watching Euro 2012. This would probably have been less galling had I actually fixed the bug, but despite a late-night-shower inspiration, I failed in my attempt. I went to bed feeling wasted, and woke too early to head back into the office.
I vowed not to repeat the mistake tonight. It’s actually a hard one not to repeat, since my customers and colleagues are just revving up for the day when I need to boot down. The nice part about UK work is that you have this lovely, uninterrupted morning to do things that require concentration. The down side is that it is hard to tear oneself away at 5.
But tonight! I would not do so! I confess that part of my ill-choice was that it is intimidating to venture into London alone, and not appealing to return to the flat. My planned collegial outing is for Thursday. So what to do with myself? Today I scoured teh intarwebs for appealing events in walking distance: compline services, plays, concerts, bands. Whateva.
I found that in the Barbican, not a block from the flat, a concert was planned. Sold. I rushed some tickets (you can get really good tickets when you’re one person by yourself), grabbed an excellent dinner expedited for me by a local restaurant and presented myself literally front-row-center.
The Barbican is a very interesting place. One expects age, marble and crystal for the home of the London Symphony Orchestra, and a cultural center of a cultural center. But the Barbican is a carpted, paneled, non-linear space with curves and corners and carpet that needs replacing. The concert hall looked more at home in Scandinavia than London. It was small – it can’t seat more than 300. It was dedicated – there was really no room for staging or a curtain or a pit orchestra. It is clearly intended for the symphony and only the symphony. There was a complete dearth of gilding or chandeliers. The back-panels were all carved wood, the floor the butt end of 2x4s, and the upholstery in mixed colors.
The crowd, for a symphony in London, was similarly un-hoighty-toighty. I mean, I watched a man in full evening dress walk by as I ate my dinner. You would expect that man’s destination might be the symphony. But I saw children, jeans and t-shirts in abundance, and not a single monocle. Even the musicians were a touch underdressed – one of the key soloists would not have been out of place in any pub in London.
But ah! The music! The evening started with a world premier, Galgenhumoresque by Martyn Harry. It was extremely rhythmically complicated – the kind of piece where you’re never actually sure if the orchestra is playing it correctly because it’s written so it doesn’t sound quite “on”, which is actually devilishly difficult to perform. I enjoyed it. The composer took a bow during the applause, which is always fun.
The next piece was Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A. I’m very familiar with the first movement. I had a CD with it when I was a young girl, and I vividly remember listening to that particular concerto while writing letters to the concert master of our orchestra from my front porch. (What can I say? He’s now a successful musician in California, and I often think fondly of our correspondence.) You will understand when I say “not a swank crowd” when I tell you that they applauded after the first movement. I mean, Seattle definitely knows better. (Seattle, I think, feels as though it has a lot more to prove.) Anyway, the soloist was about 12 years old (ok, maybe 22 but I still felt old). It was a tremendous performance, and a joy to listen to. A guy in a suit gave him an award afterwards, there was much applause, and he gave us a lovely encore.
After intermission was Carmina Burana. All the classical music cred I just earned for being penpals with our concertmaster will disappear when I tell you I’ve never heard Carmina Burana before. It is a piece perfect for a 21st century audience. Although it takes a while to perform, each piece is very snappy and interesting, but yet simple enough that you can immediately understand what you’re listening to. I promise that you, dear reader, no matter how classical-music-averse, have heard at least some of Carmina Burana, probably O Fortuna. Carmina Burana requires a huge set of performers. There’s the full symphony orchestra, two grand pianos, extended percussion, a huge choir, a children’s choir, and three soloists. (Pity the poor contratenor who has to sit up front the entire time and only sings one short song!) I’m pretty sure there was about a 2 to 1 ratio of audience to performers tonight. (Foley – have you ever sung it?)
I also found Carmina Burana a lovely combination of mysterious and funny. On the mysterious front, in the middle of a song, the language switches abruptly from Latin to German – the German repeating the refrain originally started in the Latin. Then without warning we switch back again a few songs later. The children’s choir, meanwhile, only sings things that are completely inappropriate to children. They are present doing the wooing section, and sing a lovely bit during the winning section, “Oh! Oh! Oh! I am bursting out all over! I am bursting all over with first love! (iam amore virginali). New, new love is what I am dying of!” And of course, they were serious-faced British children. It was great. You hope no one explained the words to them. The baritone also did an excellent drunken abbott impression, giving you the feeling that he has done some opera.
Anyway, I was pretty much in tears by the time it was over. It was awesome.
Tomorrow night? I’m not sure. Maybe a long linger in a pub? Perhaps an after-work walk of the Thames? Guess we’ll find out! I can feel the pull back to the states – I will not linger much longer here.
I woke up after 12 hours of sleep. This still, mind, put me behind, but I was definitely feeling better. After breakfast and coffee, I footed it to the British Museum. It’s a little more than two miles there, through posh and weekend-quiet parts of the city. Today, I decided, would be entirely dedicated to that edifice. When we last went to London, we saved the British Museum for the last part-day we were here. We lamented that we had not allocated it more of our precious time. I mean, who needs to eat? Sleep? Shop? Piffle! I decided not to make that mistake this time and gave the museum 50% of my time in London.
What I wanted to see – the Oliphant
Yeah. Why did I eat? Sleep? Shop? Seriously? I barely made it through two sections! I decided that in honor of my sons, I’d do the mummy section. I’d have lunch. Then for me I’d do the early Britain and Medieval England session with a long loving lingering at the Sutton Hoo burial and my absolute favorite olifant. But amazingly, it all took longer than you would plan, and by the time I hit Europe, I was running terribly behind. I decided to skip Roman Britain (I KNOW!) and go ahead to lust over the Sutton Hoo… only to find out they were redoing the display. I practically had to run through Medieval Europe and the reliquaries and woodprints. THE HORROR! So to sum up there, I need about 4 more days at the British Museum, please. And I can’t go after work because it’s only open until 5:30. SO NOT FAIR.
Lunch included a Pimms cup.
Lunch had managed to be tendered by American Express, giving me confidence that I had enough quid to buy dinner AND beer. I had walked past black gold and red pubs on my way in. I had gone rather early, so I hoped they had opened for lunch and would give me that chance for a pint and ahot dinner. I walked, just on the streets, about five miles today. And I spent five or six hours in the museum (you know how that is on the feet). One of those places with the little symbol that means “we serve good beer”. As I stepped out of the museum, every store, every restaurant, every storefront was closed, deserted and quiet. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the business and finance district of the city was quiet and still on a Sunday night.
And of course, it began to rain.
It was a bedraggled Brenda walking home – a very long two miles. The heart would rise at the sight of gold and black and fall as it was noted that the windows were dark and unwelcoming. I had to overshoot my apartment considerably, to finally find a section of the town that was awake, and a wood-paneled, wall-papered second floor where a Polish youth brought me beer and a Sunday roast (complete with parsnips, Yorkshire pudding and Croatia vs Ireland).
(Seriously, can Ireland miss any more shots?)
Anyway, it was an awesome day and my head was full of many things and my only desire is to have another day just like it.
Tomorrow I have to go to work instead of spending the entire day at the British Museum. Bah. Something to look forward to: England plays at 4 pm tomorrow. Chances my colleagues will be spending that time in the office? Slim. Politeness of me working late and turning down invitations to watch with them? Low. Hm. I hope that’s not at the same time as our all-company meeting. Choices.
For my sodales, one of the things I discovered in the Roman Britain room was a lead sheet, from Ubley (Uley), with a curse on it. It made me think of you and our adventures together.
A woman in a London flat. The flat is near the center of the city – between Moorgate and the Barbican. The flat is a nice one – it has a private porch, two bedrooms, a vast number of switches (including some she can’t find), a very large tv with cable and a well-stocked kitchen. She arrived early in the morning. She was met by a colleague who showed her the key attributes of the apartment, took her grocery shopping for perishables, showed her where she should present herself Monday and after assuring himself she was well established – bid her have a great weekend.
Yeah, it seems pretty unreal to me too, but here I am on a very European leather settee watching Germany vs Portugal on the BBC. There are even tea lights people. Tea lights. The number one reason my husband wishes he were with me
A few months ago, my vp announced that he wanted to strengthen the ties between the UK office and the Boston office and called for volunteers for an exchange program. I wasted little time putting my name into the ring. Then I blinked, and all of a sudden it was time for me to go. I hastily shoved some clothing into a bag, verified that my passport was up to date, worked a full day Friday and flew out. That seems like a million years ago now, but in truth I haven’t slept since then.
I figured that as long as I had a free room (corporate apartment), and the company was paying for my airfare, it made sense to go a little early and grab a weekend in London. By myself. Doing stuff I want to do. (The hard part being, of course, winnowing it down to the the handful of things I would like to do well instead of the million things I could be doing.) So today I landed in Heathrow at 6:30 am local time… 1:30 in the morning according to my body. I’d grabbed a catnap on the plane, so didn’t feel too awful. However, when I went to get some cash out, I got re-jected!!! So I used my credit card at one of those currency places to get cash instead (it took forever – the guy was a trainee and had his manager standing over his shoulder and talking him through ever button click) and proceeded into Paddington station. Fast forward through a very lost cabbie (I thought they were supposed to take a really hard test? But then again, I suppose London has changed a lot since the Blitz, which is clearly when this guy started driving.) Then there was the aforementioned being-shown-around. I had just said farewell to my guide (who has spent the previous night in our flat) and went to Starbucks to buy some caffeine to keep me going.
“Hmm.” I thought. “Where’s my Visa?” Oh dear. I had left it on the counter at the currency place. Now, I have three credit cards: a Visa I use for everything, my debit card, and an American Express I have mostly for shopping at Costco. Well, my Visa was back in Heathrow and my debit card was being blocked. And you know those adds about, “But they don’t take American Express”? They were talking about London. I got back to the flat and attempted to reach my bank, someone. It took me 20 minutes to figure out why Google talk and Skype weren’t working (see also: hadn’t slept). When I finally could call out, everything was closed. At home it was 6 am on a Saturday. (Because of course my cell phone doesn’t work at all in the UK.) I finally managed to figure out how to call the currency place and verify that they do have my credit card, and they have put it aside for me. But now I have this, uh, creative tension. In some places, I have money. If they take Amex, I’m golden. I have money on my Starbucks card, which works here. And if I actually got in any sort of bind, I could call one of my UK colleagues and they would rescue me. On Monday the bank should unfreeze my account. But for tomorrow, unless its Amex or Starbucks, I have 20 pounds to my name (and a nicely stocked kitchen). Creative tension.
So what did I do with my day in London? Well, to my everlasting delight Shakespeare’s Globe takes American Express (for ticketing only, not for the gift shop). It was 11:30 by the time I was ready to leave the apartment and there was a 2 pm matinee of King Henry V – my favorite of the histories. I walked about a mile and a half across the Millennium bridge to the theater, walked up to the box office and asked if they had any tickets left. Sadly, the only tickets they had were the best in the house! So I ended up getting a front row, top balcony seat. With an hour and a half to to spend until it was time to be seated and the Tate Museum next door, I decided to check it out. My neighbor, a graphic designer, had abjured me in the strongest language to go see it. So I did. I decided to focus on one gallery instead of walking quickly through all of them, and found myself in a surrealist exhibit of dreamscapes. I liked some, didn’t like others, thought some were fascinating and others more about the artist statement than the art. But it was fun. I rarely go to art museums, and I enjoyed the experience.
My illicit picture of a cornettist
Then – bliss! There was a renaissance wind band playing in prep for the show! Haut instruments! Cornetto and sackbutt, as well as recorders and lute. Huzzah! I got one illicit picture before being notified “no photography”. Then the play. This was the opening performance, I believe. There were a few moments when that became clear – one or two lines less expertly delivered than others. But it was a find production. The limitations of the Elizabethan in daytime are interesting. Many of the tricks of modern theater were unavailable. They did use some of the tricks of ancient theater, with smoke bombs for cannons. The only other note I had was how unbelievably distracting the helicopters that hover over the Thames like locusts are. One nice thing about Ashland is the town quiets down for the theater. The same cannot be asked of London.
I took the long way back, although fatigue was catching up to me after two and a half hours of Shakespeare. (Crispin Crispian day! If only you didn’t fall in the middle of October I would celebrate it as one of my fake holidays!) I walked the Thames down to London Bridge and crossed over there, stopping at the lovely Liverpool Station for Cornish Pasties for dinner. Snapped on my walk home using my phone, which is currently only a camera and Bejeweled device
And now, to bring things full circle, I’m watching Portugal vs. Germany and telling you about what I’m doing! I’m pretty sure this would be a better blog post if I had slept more than 3 hours in the last 30 or so, but I figure bad is better than none at all.
The other day I created a new Pandora station. It goes back to the guitar lessons, you see. There’s this Simon and Garfunkel song (Kathy’s Song) that I want to learn how to play. I then discovered that somehow my Simon and Garfunkel hadn’t made it to my new computer, and thus not to my phone. Let’s just put some ellipses in here that cover the fact that 4 interventions later, I still do not have Kathy’s Song on my phone to play for my teacher nor my oldest favoritest CDs onto my new laptop which is synced with my iPod.
But in the long journey towards getting my music in a place I can listen to it, I realized I hadn’t heard much Simon and Garfunkel lately, and that cannot stand. Enter the Pandora station.
And people, this is the best Pandora station ever. It’s basically the singer song-writers of the 60s, with these great voices, acoustic guitars and fantastic lyrics. This year for Valentine’s day one of us got tickets to the ballet and one of us got an awesome sound system for the tv. Adam has a blast with him mom at the ballet, and with the Roku I can stream my music and it sounds great. So I’ve been listening to Pandora through this sound system with this rocking new station. Now, back in the old days, before they invented NPR (or more accurately, before any sort of talk radio actually made its way to the boonies where we lived – and yes I am older than talk radio) my family listened to the Oldies station. This was like the 80s, so oldies meant the 60s, as opposed to now when oldies mean the 80s. These are songs I actually recognize!
The other day, I stayed up way too late with some friends playing a game that had been popular in my youth. This game is basically, “Just how out of touch is Brenda with everything pop culture”. In the modern edition it involved a playlist of Songs I Should Really know and then gales of laughter as I guessed Completely Inappropriate Bands. Let’s be honest… while I stand a decent chance of correctly pairing a aria with its composer, if not its opera, I can’t tell Aerosmith from Lynrd Skynr.
Anyway, I’ve been listening to these old songs, new songs, lovely songs. I’ve been hearing the words far more clearly than I did in the back seat of the station wagon, waving in and out through distant FM waves. Some of the songs I completely misinterpreted. For example, I was listening to My Sweet Lord. At first I thought, ‘What a beautiful Christian anthem! Wonder why I haven’t heard it sung at a church service?’ All the “alle”s heading up to an “alleluia”. Yeah, I hear you laughing now. It’s not “alle” like “alleluia”. It’s “Hare” like “Hare Krishna”. Oops!
Some of the other songs from the 60s break my heart and make me want to cry. Long on that list have been Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream and Imagine. This particular playlist is fond of If You Are Going to San Francisco. I’m increasingly struck by the hopefulness, the belief they had that this time it could really be different – the world could really be new. There was a spirit of joy that is so compelling, so lovely. The song simply promises that if you come to San Francisco, you should wear some flowers in your hair, and you will meet gentle people there. Gentle people. How often today are we offered gentle people? When is the last time you heard someone called gentle, or were called gentle yourself. We do not aspire to gentleness, we do not claim to desire gentleness.
The flower children of the 60s were younger then than I am now, and their childhood seems lovely to me. My parents were of that generation (although decidedly not flower children). The persuasive hope and gentleness and optimism of a generation were erased, assassinated, worn down, made illegal, caricatured and faded. There are not unironic people in San Francisco – gentle – with flowers in their hair. We would say that John Lennon was a dreamer – and he died a violent death. He might not have been the only one when he sang, but I hear many fewer dreamers on Kiss 108.
I get tired of irony, cynicism and self-consciousness. Our artists cannot afford sincerity. The internet, the media channels… they stand ready to mock the slightest weakness. Hope seems impossibly naive. The Boomers couldn’t change the world – what chance do the Millennials have, or those of us whose generation comes at the end of the alphabet? I look back to the childhood of my parents, the thrill of change, and I wish I had gone to San Francisco with flowers in my hair.
I leave you with some thoughts from Bob Dylan:
Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it is ragin’
It’ll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.
The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’.
Thane has gone camping every summer of his life. He was born in October, and by the time his first May rolled around I decided that it was time to go camping! (As an aside: why did we NOT go camping for the 5 summers between graduation and having kids? What was I so busy doing? It’s a mystery.) I trundled the kids (and the pack ‘n’ play!) into a car and by gum, we went camping. His first camping trip was at nine months. We went camping when he was 18 months. And 27 months. Two years ago – at 1.75, 4.75 and 33.75 years of age
Last summer, my dearest husband and I began to wonder if we even liked camping (the answer being – we definitely like it by ourselves!) It was tough camping with such little kids. And as much as I love camping, it did require toughing. At 9 months, Thane wasn’t – you know – sleeping through the night. When he was 1, he would wake up at 5:45 hungry and bored. At 2, he still so desperately needed his naps and had such a miserable time taking them. There were the diapers. The constant vigilance. The sleep deprivation. The whining. By an objective measure, it wasn’t really… you know… fun. The kids were too small to swim unless we were physically holding them. Too small to go boating. Too small to go fishing. Too small to go for more than a mile-long leisurely hike. Too small to make them do the dishes. Sometimes camping was refreshing, or satisfying. There were glorious moments. It broke the tedium of every day the same. But by the time it was pack-up time, we were really ready to go.
Thane at 2+. I miss those golden curls.
But I had faith that if I just toughed it out, camping with my sons would eventually be awesome. I mean, I love camping. I love the tent. I love the smell of woodsmoke. I love the call of the loons on the lake. I love lying in a dewing field watching the stars come out. I love finding sticks for kindling, swimming, hiking, reading and discovering cool spiderwebs. I mean, isn’t this what having boys is supposed to be all about, this ecstasy of outdoorsiness? All I had to do was get to that moment – that trip – where it all clicked.
And folks, I’m here to tell you THIS WAS IT. We went camping this last weekend, and it was awesome. The weather was awesome. By dint of making reservations in January, we had a truly amazing camping spot. And the kids were so fun. We skipped naps. The kids slept until 8 am. They paid attention to our “how to make a fire” lecture. They entertained themselves. Grey rode a bike without training wheels for the first time. He read a chapter book. Thane used his “playing quietly by himself” skills. Grey swam without flotation devices, made friends, and periodically wandered back to the campsite to check in. Thane went the entire weekend without any potty training accidents. My sons summitted their first mountain (Black Cap Peak). It was just great. I sat by the fire, watching the water, listening to the loons on the lake, hanging out contentedly at the beach, and eating all the s’mores myself because for some reason my crazy children don’t like s’mores.
I’m sure not every camping trip will be this awesome, but this one really was. So for those of you wondering when it’s a good age to bring your kids camping… I vote for 3 and 9 months.
My Truant Pen 