Pirates are cute, too

I honestly don't know which is cuter:

A. A full-grown Pirate playing ring-around-the-rosie with the Pirette in front of all his cricket buddies, or

B. The Pirate teaching the Pirette how to bake homemade sourdough* bread, whilst she stands on a dining chair in the kitchen and sprinkles flour on the counter top as per his instructions.  (Note to self: I must get them matching aprons for Christmas.)

Votes in the comments box.



*We find that, disappointingly, Paul Hollywood's method yeields a better result than Hugh Fernley-Wittingstall's method.  Sorry, Hugh.

Introducing...

Oona Mary Elizabeth Pirate!

Born on the day I saw the very first daffodils of spring (while walking to McDonald's for lunch while I was in labor!), and Pirate saw the first cherry blossoms (while walking home from work to take me to the birthing center).

And yes, that is a Star Wars T-shirt I'm wearing. I used the Force. It helped.


She weighed 8 lbs, 7.5 oz. Don't ask me how long she was, they don't do that measurement here so I have no idea.

We didn't go to a hospital, we we went to a midwife-led birthing centre. It was marvelous and peaceful. I was the only mother there, and I was waited on hand and foot by two fantastic midwives who had been working as a team for 30 years, knew each other inside and out, and had great humor and bantor, and by a materinity assistant, who did all the non-medical stuff like make me tea and draw me a bath after. I couldn't have received better care if I'd been the queen.

I stayed overnight with Oona in bed with me. They offered to let Pirate stay as well, since he was falling asleep on the tile floor of the delivery room. Poor wee Pirate; he was all pooped out after 11 hours of labor! *snort*

I'll post the whole story with the gorey details later, if any of you maternal vultures are interested. Right now I have to put the bed together for my maternal pirate-in-law, who is coming to stay for a few days to lend a hand so Pirate can go back to swashbuckling.

WHY THE FUCK AM I STILL PREGNANT?!?!?!?!

My due date was Friday. This is shit. This is NOT the German efficiency (and I'm 25% German, so that should count for something.)

I'm huge. I can't sleep. I can't sit comfortably, stand comfortably, walk comfortably, or lie down comfortably. And I'm fed up with swapping one discomfort for another just for variety's sake.

Also, I'm exhausted. I can't sleep. I have to pee every 45 minutes (until about 4 am by which time I'm sufficiently dehydrated that I can go about 2 hours between weeing. If only my uterus was as keen as my fucking kidneys.) And my RLS* has become unbearable. I lie in bed at night jerking like a mule that's undergone army experimentation, thus guaranteeing that the Pirate isn't getting any meaningful sleep, either. (And he hasn't whinged about it once, bless his tighty whities.)

We went to see Brendon Burns in Oxford on Thursday night, hoping to laugh the kid loose. Nearly worked, too. Had a couple contractions before the show began, and after 90 minutes of solid belly laughter I carried on contracting strongly, if erradically, until about 2 am. Then it all fizzled out and died and I've had nothing since. Bah.

Tomorrow is my nephew's birthday. He'll be 1. Keep your fingers crossed that something kicks off tonight so the cousins can share a birthday. That would be cool.


*Don't laugh. It's real, and it SUCKS.

My Mother-in-Law the Pudding Rapist

Wow. I knew it had been a while since I blogged, but I genuinely hadn't realized it had been over 2 months. Sorry about that. I didn't mean to take such a long break, but once I stepped back from the screen to take a breather I found it really difficult to return. Rather than write a big long whingy apology though, how about I just jump right back into it? Right. Here goes.

My mother-in-law is a Pudding Rapist. (This is pudding in the English sense, meaning all things desserty, not just the stuff Bill Cosby sells.)

Pirate and I were up at the in-laws for 2 weeks over Easter, during which time my MIL fed us pudding every day at lunch AND dinner. Argh! After 4 days I thought I would explode. The problem is I know she only does it because I'm there. If it was just Pirate visiting his parents she would make a pud the first night and leave it at that. But because I'm there she makes one every night. And since she's doing it for me I feel obligated out of a sense of hospitality to accept, and then she says "See, I knew you really did want it" and makes another one the next night. And then pourse double cream all over everything! GROOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

So, yes, the Pudding Rapist. Becuase in her mind "no" means "yes" and no matter how much you scream and kick and protest that you don't want any more, she knows you secretly do, and gives it to you.

A Memo from the desk of Too Much Information

Me: sorry for sleeping so late. I put the sheepy sheets* on my bed last night and it was so snuggly in there i couldn't bring myself to get up. It was like a uterus. Now I'm going to spend the rest of the day eagerly awaiting bed time, just so i can get back in it.

Mom: Why don't you go back to bed now?

Me: I'm wide awake. What would I do there.
*pauses*
Don't answer that.

Mom:** You know what they say: sex is like bridge... if you've got a good hand, you don't need a partner.

Me: ...




*We're having a cold snap. The temperature was below zero last night. That's zero Farenheit. So I put the flannel sheets on my bed. My flannel sheets have little cartoon sheeps all over them. They are seriously cute.

** Mom runs a twice-weekly, ACBL-sanctioned bridge game for a bunch of nearly-dead local residents. I shudder to think where she heard this.

Back in the USS...A?

Pirate and I are leaving tonight for the Land of W (soon to be the Land of O). I don't know when I'll be back, because I have to get my spousal visa while I'm there, and the British Consulate give absolutely no indication of how long that takes. It might take 2 days, in which case I'll be coming home with Pirate on January 3rd, or it might take 6 weeks, in which case I'll be missing my own 30th Birthday/Innauguration joint party. I have no idea.

It's going to be an absolutely manic holiday, what with travelling to Wisconsin to visit my brother, fighting the snow on the roads and airports, PIRATE'S parents flying over from England to spend a week with my family, Bridesmaid Vi, husband Wally, son Smally Wally and Big Wally's parents all visiting from Massachusetts during the same week the Pirates-in-law will around, and my visa excitement thrown in on top of that. Blogging may or may not occur. Most likely I'll lurk and read your blogs when I get a few quiet minutes to myself, but I don't know that I'll have the ambition to write much.

Unless I'm in desperate need of catharsis, which is always a possibility.

And at FN's request, here is a photo for your enjoyment:



Merry Christmas, y'all!

In-laws

They are coming.

They are coming tonight.

I have 9 hours to:

• clean the bathrooms
• mop the kitchen floor
• vacuum the whole house (Pirate?)
• tidy the spare bedrooms
• rearrange the furniture in the spare bedrooms
• put sheets on all the beds
• wash a load of darks
• walk a mile to the grocery store and carry all the groceries home*
• cook dinner for Pirate
• bake Christmas cookies
• take out the compost bucket
• clean the dead leaves out of the flower beds before the stems rots
• shower
• finish sewing Pirate's stocking**
• finish crocheting Pirate's mum's scarf***

*I must remember to buy toilet paper
**I'm making stockings for both of us out of an old pair of jeans.
***It was supposed to be done for last Christmas

Seeing Ghosts

I don't believe in ghosts. I almost wish I did. If I could dismiss what I saw as ghost it would be easier. I would know that it was just a figment of my imagination, brought about by the unfortunate combination of memory and a bit of undigested cheese (as Ebenezer could no doubt tell you). But what I saw was made all the more petrifying for being absolutely 100% flesh and blood real.

My grandmother has been dead for 10 years.

(Is your skin crawling yet? Mine still is.)

I saw her again tonight. Her hair, her clothes, her manner, carriage, bearing, demeanor, mannerisms, gestures, lipstick, shoes, all of it exactly as I remember her from when I was a girl. Everything from the little flyaway hairs around her face that escaped her soft bun to the string of pearls around her neck, the tailoring of her skirts and the T-strap, high-heeled shoes: identical.

I was at the Theatre Royal in Bath watching Patricia Routledge star as Queen Mary in Crown Matrimonial. Darlene Johnson, who played the Countess of Airlie, is the spitting image of the woman I remember has having dominated my family for the first 2 decades of my life. I couldn't take my eyes off her, not even to focus on the stunning performances of the rest of the cast.

I am, quite literally, still shaking. I actually had the feeling, during the play, of wanting to go up and talk to her. I'm not sure why. Maybe I wanted to get close enough to smell if she wore the same perfume, too. Maybe I wanted to yell at her, or hug her, or ask her questions. Maybe all of that. (Warning: unresolved issues imminent.)

The thing is, I don't miss her. I wasn't that upset when she died, and I rarely think of her. When I do it's usually to thank my lucky stars that she won't be around to ruin another Christmas. You see, my gramma wasn't a very nice person. To put it less subtly, she was selfish cow.

Selfish really is the word. She wasn't evil, or belligerent, or malicious. But was extremely petty and bitter, had an immesurable sense of entitlement, and was above all the utter center of her universe. As far as she was concerned the entire world existed to cater to her whims. Basically, all her unsavory behaviors over the years can be traced back to this single, all-consuming need to constantly be the center of attention.

I'll give you an illustration. When my mother and father got married, my grandmother (mom's mom) wore head-to-toe white lace. I should tell you at this point that gramma was a looker. Stunning figure. Even when she died at the age of 82 she still had the best legs of any woman in the family. When she was young she could have been a movie star. Mom, as it happens, inherited grampa's looks, and while a lovely woman, she never had that silver screen elegance that gramma had. So when gramma showed up at her own daughter's wedding in a floor-length, fitted, white lace sheath dress you can bet your sweet bippy it was with the subconscious (if not outright deliberate) intent to steal her daughter's thunder on her own wedding day and out-shine the bride. Justifiable homicide if you ask me.

I suppose she was a kleptomania of sorts, spending her entire life stealing other people's thunder. This need to always be in the spotlight manifested itself in other ways, notably her morbid response to grandpa's terminal illness.

When I was about 4 my grandfather was diagnosed with liver cancer. Whether the diabetes came before or after that I don't know, but I've been told that at the time he was given 3 months to live. He finally died when I was almost 20.

In the intervening 15 years a lot of considerations were, by necessity, dictated by grandpa's needs. Housing, food, travel arrangements, time and location of family gatherings, that sort of thing. I know dealing with grandpa's illness was difficult for her, and it certainly wasn't made any easier by the fact that he was just as self-centered as she was.

In my entire life I don't recall ever having a single conversation with my grandfather. I'm not certain that he ever addressed me directly. He came to everything -- band concerts, graduations, all that -- but he never spoke to me. To him I was a complete non-entity. And I suspect he felt much the same about gramma. He probably took her completely for granted and never thanked her for a thing or apologized for making everything so tough for her. Instead he shouted at her (a lot) and peed in the kitchen sink when it was too much effort for him to go upstairs where the only toilet was located.

Her response to this was to try to skim off as much attention from the rest of us as possible, and she did it by insisting that she was the one who was dying. (Never mind that she had the constitution of a horse until 30 seconds before a sudden heart attack finished her off.) Every stinking year is was (as she placed the back of her hand wearily across her forehead like a melodramic victorian heroine) "Oh, I'm sure this my last Christmas! I won't live to see another one!" or "This is the last time I'll be at your birthday" or whatever. No matter the occasion, it was sure to be the last one. (I can remember mom muttering responses under he breath like "Thank god for that" and "promise?" and "you better be right this time." Even "I can arrange that."

This constant insistence that every event was the last she would live to witness came with an interesting corollary. Just to make sure that we knew she didn't want to die (god forbid she should get something she wanted, she wouldn't be able to complain any more!) she would constantly exclaim "Oh, if only I could live long enough to see Marley (my brother) _____!" The blank could be anything: get a girlfriend, graduate grade/middle/high school, college, grad school, get married, anything. The golden grandson was her only reason for living. I was, well, a non-entity. Not once did the words "I only hope I live to see CB ________" ever escape her red lips.

This was, I realized later, the major source of the sibling rivalry between me and my brother. I was convinced for the better part of my life that everyone liked him better, loved him more, and felt he was in every way superior in talent and more important to the future of humanity. It took me a long time to realize that, actually, it was only gramma and grandpa who thought that.

Gramma seemed to know this, too, and made a huge point of always emphasizing how she treated us equally (with a tone of voice that suggested it was against her better judgement). Every year at Christmas and birthdays she would hold my arm firmly and tell me in no uncertain terms that she spend exactly the same amount of money on my gifts as she had on Marley's.

???

Who does that? Why the need to point it out? For one thing, it never occured to me think otherwise. More importantly, if it was so obviously true, why state it at all? One doesn't spend a lifetime repeating obvious statements unless there is some reason to believe the contrary.

The thing was, I didn't care a whit how much she spent on my presents or Marley's. Even after her incessant reassurances I still didn't care. But I do wonder now how many times she was lying through her teeth. I mean, I was a kid. What the fuck did I know how much anything cost?

This obsession of proclaiming equal spending on us kids (the only 2 grandkids in the family, by the way, on either side) also speaks to my grandmother's deep-seated shallowness and materialism. Balanced material spending meant equality between grandkids because material goods were the most important thing in life, so if they were equal than any other discrepancies in treatment were inconsequential. I can't really blame her for that one, though. She grew up and got married during the great depression, and the fear of ever reverting to that way of life again really scared the crap out of her. When the old bat finally died we found over $10,000 in CASH squirreled away in shoe boxes throughout her house, hidden (really well in some cases) because she never did trust the banks after 1929. The Depression definitely scarred her, as it did many of her generation.

A bizarre twist in gramma's proclaimations of equality were the instances when she would lean over my shoulder and whisper in my ear "You're your grandpa's favorite, you know." She did this several times in my life, usually after I helped my grandfather up or down a flight of steps at church or out of the car when there was ice on the ground. He never spoke to me; I was a glorified walking stick, but my reward for my efforts was to be told I was the favorite.

Again, if it's true, there's no reason to say so out loud and plenty of good reasons not to. But I was just cynical enough to think at the time "Pfft. Whatever. I bet you said the same thing to Marley 15 seconds ago." Possibly the only astute observation I ever made of my grandparents in their lifetime. The rest of this stuff I didn't think about or realize until after they were dead.

But this is all the shit that came flooding back to me when I saw that actress on stage tonight. I suppose it's no wonder I was shaking. I don't have any photos my gramma to share with you (it was years after she died that I got my first digital camera, and all the old prints are in my parents' basement), but if you see Crown Matrimonial this week (and I highly recommend that you do), take a look at Lady Airlee, and you'll have a pretty fucking accurate picture of what she looked like.

Easter Update

Well that was fun.

Actually, it was a rather nice week, just exhausting. My future mother in law has a golden retriever-like desire to please, and the energy to match. The woman never stops moving. Just being in a room with her wears you out. Mom and the FIL (Father In Law, obv) got on fine, and never stopped talking. Not for one minute. The conversation flowed like the Ganges, without repetition, deviation, or hesitation.*

The worst part of the weekend was the drive up, which took twice as long as it normally does thanks to holiday traffic and was a very grumpy and miserable experience for the Pirate, who was driving.

The rest of the weekend went by in a blur of sight-seeing and food. The MIL does not. stop. cooking. Ever. And you're not allowed to finish a meal. She's constantly pushing more food in your face and insisting you eat more. The woman doesn't take 'no' for an answer. We sat at the dining table for 3 meals a day. Breakfast was croissants, fruit, cereal, coffee, tea, toast, yogurt, toast, cereal, jam, eggs, and juice. Lunch was a hot meal, and came with dessert! Then there was tea, which naturally involved cakes. Then there was dinner, which came with another dessert!

We'll be living on steamed veggies and brown rice for the rest of the week.

Oh, and the in-laws STILL don't let Pirate and me sleep in the same room, which sucks. I'll give the mater credit for this much: she orchestrated it so we could have some time alone in the house together, which was really really nice. We seriously needed that. We used the time to play video games (Medieval Total War) and finish the model of Stone Henge I started at Christmas. And to mess my hair up, naturally.

But there were no explosive rows. Only a strained awkwardness when it became apparent during conversation that FIL doesn't believe in global climate change, and believes that if it is happening there's nothing we can do about it so there's no reason for him to give up his Jag and 2 Aston Martins. Tosser.

Now the mater and I are working full time at wedding planning. Finding shoes has become the crisis du jour.



*that's a Radio4 joke. See how sophisticated** I've become?


**middle class

Wesolego Alleluja!

Off to the in-laws with my mom to celebrate Easter. Pirate and I are picking her up at the airport tomorrow (Good Friday) and heading oop north. This is going to be interesting.

Full report on Tuesday. In the meantime, enjoy the Peep show.

Leavin' on a jet plane

Pirate and I are off to Sith Efrica! Pirate, being the international cricket star that he is, is going on a 2 1/2 week tour of South Africa to play cricket, and I'm going with him! I was up until 3 a.m. this morning packing so that I'd be ready to go right after work today. (All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...)

The latest wedding disaster is that all the Save the Date cards that I put in a bundle and mailed to mom vial Royal Mail Air Sure (supposedly trackable all the way to it's final destination), have gone completely missing. Gone. All of them.

So now ALL the STD cards that were meant to go to the American guests (and the numerous other friends and family mom has decided need to be invited, despite the fact that I have never met some of them) have to be redone. But of course I'm leaving. So all the spare stationery has been put in the post to mom and all the files have been emailed to her in a million different formats so she's got no excuse. She'll have to deal with.

And she's fucking thrilled! Because now she gets to do something without any input from me AND she gets to be the hero who saved the day, thereby justifying all her meddling. Now all I'm going to hear for the next 7 months (hell, probably the next 70 years) is, "What on earth would you have done without me! You never could have carried this off if I hadn't been there for you! Aren't you glad now that I was so willing to help you??" So much for telling her to back off. Fart.

But I don't care. (Not at the moment, anyway. I'm sure when I get back in March I'll care very much.) But tomorrow is another day and all that jazz. For now, I'm going to think about arriving someplace warm and sunny with the Pirate at my side. (When I come back, I'll wear your wedding ring...) There will be crickets, wickets, penguins, sandy beaches, birdwatching, hiking, and sweet sweet lurve. Oh God get me out of here.

I don't know how much internet access I'll have while I'm gone, and even if I do, frankly, I won't be using it. I need to unplug for a while.

So come back in March and I'll show you all some lovely photos and tell you about the penguins.

Oh that DOES it

I have had it up to *here*

You know I've been going out of my mind with the wedding plans, right? And I've only been telling you a tiny bit. In addition:

I've been on the phone with my mom more than 2 hours a day for the past 3 weeks.

Last night, after I was in bed (I hate being awakend when I have to be up at 6 am for training), I got a phone call from my father telling me that my mom was upset because I had pushed her out of the wedding plans and she wanted to be more involved!

I pushed her out???? SHE'S FUCKING TAKING OVER! SHE'S MORE INVOLVED THAN THE PIRATE!!!!! I've been reduced to meer middleman, conveying her wishes and commands to the various parties.

Not only that, but there are numerous issues over which she and the Pirate disagreed, and with few (1) exceptions, she has entirely gotten her way. This weekend I got really weepy with the Pirate because I felt that I was being torn apart, and there was absolutely no way I could keep both him and my mother happy, and that if it came down to it, he's more important and his wishes take priority, but I don't (didn't) want to have to be that blunt with my mother.

And then she has the balls to get upset with me. I went livid.

I spent 30 minutes on the phone with dad explaining all of this. He was incredibly sympathetic, and at the end of my tirade said, "You've got me convinced. She's the one out of control." He was about to attempt to deal with her diplomatically and explain my feelings (she's running me ragged micromanaging everything), when she heard him on the phone and exclaimed "Oh, so now I'm the enemy!"

Great. just fucking great.

So what did I do? I rolled over and played dead like I have since I was a kid. I learned very young that you don't win arguements with my mom. No one does. They are pointless. In 29 years she's never once said "I was wrong" about anything. Ever. So I sat there listening to her tell me how much I had hurt her by leaving her out of the wedding (I still have genuinely no idea how she can possibly feel this way) and I wound up aplogizing to her.

God I'm spineless.

I told her how I feel. But did she aplogize? Did she fuck. She doesn't apologize because she is never wrong. It's that simple.

So I aplogized to her. She feels better. I'm still seething. I can't convey how angry I am. And I strenuoulsy resent the fact that she has made planning my wedding into a minor war, fought with emotional manipulation and guilt. Finally at 1:30 in the morning I hung up the phone, took a double dose of sleeping pills, and cried myself to sleep.

On Thrusday (Valentine's Day), Pirate and I are leaving to spend 2 1/2 weeks in Capetown, South Africa. Hopefully in that interval I will be able to calm down and come back feeling refreshed and actually enjoy the wedding planning again. But I'm not hopefull. Pirate and I will be seriously discussing the possibility of eloping.

I can't take this any more, and there's still more than 7 months to go.

Why I'm going insane

Last night I received a 4 page document from my parents. It was a giant list of questions about the wedding. 4 pages. single spaced. Here is a sample of the questions contained therein:

• Where will [bridesmaid from Scotland] stay? When will she arrive?
• When and how will you collect your dress from the dressmaker? [the dressmaker is half a block from where I live.]
• When will the rehearsal be held? How long will it last? Where will we go to eat afterwards? How will we get there?
• What is [Best Man’s] availability? Who will ensure that he gets to where he needs to be, when he needs to be there and dressed as he needs to be? [He's an adult for Christ's sake! Do you want me to wipe his ass for him, too?!]
• What symbol will you put on the place cards to indicate to the serving staff what meal people have ordered? [I'm not kidding. The wedding is more than 7 months away and they are already worried about the fucking place cards.]
• Who will be your Trail BOSS, someone who will ride herd on and coordinate all the activities for the day? Let wedding party and guests know when and where to be, insuring guests get in from the airport in good order. Insures everything goes as planned. THIS is a tough role. [Sister in law] did it using an excel spreadsheet and minute to minute planning to help but still had glitches.
• Where will you dress for the wedding? At the hotel? At the church? How many hours ahead of time should dressing begin? If dressing at the hotel, how will you get to the church? Walking will be very risky. [it's across the street.] In whose car? Will a cab work for such a short fare
• Pirate won’t arrive until the day of the wedding. Where will he go? He shouldn’t see you in your dress before the ceremony. Could he dress and groom in his parents' room at the hotel? How and when does he go to the church? Who sees to it? [are you fucking kidding me? He gets himself to the church. By walking! He's not a fucking child!!!]

And it goes on. and on. Can you see why I'm going nuts?!?!? These people are out of their minds. They are micromanaging me into insanity.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lineage

Pirate has just discovered that he is a direct descendant of William the Conquerer through his mother's side. Which means he isn't really English; he's French! Hahahahaha!

Coast Guard Rescue

Shit, where do I begin???

Sorry for the loooooooong hiatus. I didn't have much time for blogging while oop north at the (future) in-laws, and then I got back and was busy and then,

well, you know how sometimes the more daunting a task is the longer you put it off, but it only gets more and more daunting? it's kind of like that. i wanted to tell you every wonderful little marvelous details of everything that happened, and I couldn't face the enormity of it, and so I wrote nothing at all. Not too clever, I know.

So here's the synopsis:

(and thanks for bugging me. knowing that people were checking in on me and wondering what the fuck was going on was the motivation i needed, so thanks very much to everyone who left me nagging comments about falling overboard!)

Had a fabulous time over Christmas with Pirate and his folks. Ate till it was impossible to distinguish me from the Great White Whale, and then washed it all down with another mince pie. And champers. Fucking 'ell, I drank more Champaigne in the week from Christmas to New Years than I have in my entire night cumulative. Actually, I think I drank more Champagne the first night we arrived than I had in my entire life cumulative, and just kept building up the record from there. There were dinner parties and toasts and more toasts and a few more toasts and a few more parties. Pirate and I got loads of engagement pressies, which was lovely. Pirate's parents bought us a bunch of really nice (400 thread count) King size bed linens! Ooh, those are going to be so nice to sleep in! There was also lots of Boggle, Scrabble, and reading taking place, as well as walks in the drippy countryside and strolling through villages. A lovely way to pass the holidays.

On the wedding front, things are finally getting hammered down. I can now confirm that we will be getting Married in Bristol at St. Mary Redcliffe Church on (probably) Sept. 5, 2008. (Warning: that link plays music.) We have the venue for the reception narrowed down to 3 possibilities, and will hopefully have a decision on that by the end of the week. The problem is that Pirate has just been sent to Germany for the week, so I'm rather left hanging at the moment.

boy, writing that it doesn't seem like much happened, but honestly, i've been up to my ass in aligators. well, back to it i suppose.

Ooh, I almost forgot to mention (but a certain commenter remembered), my birthday was this weekend. I am 29 for the first time. It was a good day. We met with the vicar and made arrangements for the wedding, so that was fun.

High seas blogging

Hi all! I'm blogging from the high seas, being tossed and turned and tumbled in family, food, and affection. Mrs. Pirate hasn't left the galley since we arrived, and the edibles have been endless. Pirate is currently trying to get his little brother's old dinghy in working order so we can go for a bit of exercise in the cold sunshine and shed a few calories in the process, but it appears to be a lost cause; i don't think the little craft has been water-tight for years. It's more than a morning's work to get operational.

We sailed up on Friday in Pirate's big, splashy classic yacht, and after leaving the fog in Brizzle had clear water the whole way. Mr. and Mrs. Pirate were ecstatic to see us, and after raising several toasts to everything Mr. Pirate could think to name, the two of us (Pirate and his mum being teatotal) drowned the majority of the ship's supply of bubbly rum. We nearly burnt the ship down that evening in an attempt to roast some chestnuts, but after some quick action on the Pirate's part there were only a few singed sails to tell the tail.

I've been sleeping like a rock in the big double hammock in the guest saloon, rocked gently each night by the movement of the vessel, and Pirate has completely abandoned the moratorium on non-married people sleeping together and has crawled into my hammock every night. Thus far a very successful visit indeed.

Tomorrow we are all sailing north to the paternal gran's port, where there will be a big clan gathering, roast turkey, and pressies galore. Stay tuned for the swashbuckling update!

Baby winge

I read an article last week in the BBC. I genuinely don't remember what it was about, but one line stuck out in my mind, and has been turning over and over in my brain ever since:

"Many women blame the lack of adequate child care."

What exactly are they blaming on the on the lack of childcare? I don't remember, but it was probably something to do with either why so few women are in full-time employment, or possibly falling birth rates. It doesn't really matter, though. What is amazing about this statement is how blaze' it is. I bet few, if any, other readers of the article even batted an eye when they read it. Of course it's to do with inadequate child care. Duh.

And yet, this is an extraordinary assertion. I find it incredible that anyone, in any situation, should feel entitled to child care of any form. It really is an amazing assumption, completely new in the past couple of decades (which is but a pimple on the butt of the sum total of human history), that we feel entitled to give birth, spend a couple months with baby, and then go back to our careers, leaving someone else to look after the spog until he or she is 18 and old enough to leave home.

Ok, maybe not completely new. Extremely wealthy women throughout history were obligated to produce heirs to inherit their husband's property, but refused to engage in anything so bovine as actually feeding their own children, and after the first loud wail the bairns were handed off to be raised by wet nurses and governesses. But that is by far the exception, and even then it was never viewed as a government's responsibility. It was still a personal choice (either raise them yourself or spend your own money to hire other people). No one used other people's money to hire other people to raise their own children. Such an idea would have been preposterous. And yet, that's exactly what we do today.

Japan, Italy, and pretty much all of the developed world are facing major birth rate crises. The problem is that couples have been breeding far below the necessary 2.1 kids per couple to sustain the population, and the result is that in a few more years there won't be enough workers paying in to the social benefits scheme to support all the old people retiring and living off it. In both these countries women cite The Lack of Adequate Child Care as a primary reason for having one or no kids. Interestingly, when presented with a choice of raising kids or having a career, most people seem to be choosing the career. Fine. At least it's a choice. They are saying "I can't do both, so I choose one over the other." I can respect that.**

What I can't respect is the sense of entitlement, that the government has some sort of obligation to raise my children so I don't have to sacrifice anything to have them. And that kind of attitude is all too common. It's deeply reminiscint of people who want pets but don't want to do any of the dirty work, like walking the dog and scooping the cat litter. Can you imagine someone writing an article for the BBC, or giving a story on the news, saying "I'm completely entitled to have a dog, but I don't have time to take it out twice a day to walk and poop because I work full time. Clearly the government needs to institute more comprehensive dog-ownership programs to assist working dog-owners with their dog-walking and poop-scooping tasks. These programs need to be made especially accessible to poorer dog owners, who often have the most dogs but the fewest resources to look after them." Man, would I love to see that.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that a woman's place is in the home making babies. I am saying that you shouldn't even be contemplating having kids (and that's "you" meaning all of you, male and female alike) unless you're prepared give something up to have them (that is the nature of parenting) and are prepared to raise them your bloody self.


What do you think? There are a few moms and dads who hang out here. Do you think you are entitled to child care and after-school programs so you can continue to work? If so, why?

**Interestingly, no one has suggested a mass adoption campaign to move unwanted or orphaned babies from overpopulated countries like India and China to developed countries. If Italy is willing to pay its women cash to make babies, why shouldn't they just spend the cash to import and raise babies that would otherwise languish in a 3rd-world orphanage? It would help balance things out a lot. Everybody wins! I'm serious about this.

Meet the Pirates

UPDATE: the post is finished!
(Sorry it took so long. I've been working full-time and trying to get a million and one beginning-of-semester things like financial aid and stuff sorted out. It's been kind of crazy. But I have a lot more to tell you so after this hopefully i'll be posting a bit more regularly. Thanks for your patience.)

So!

Meet the Pirates.

This is where I tell you all about my parents' visit and how the meeting between them and Pirate's parents went. It was all terribly exciting. Nervewracking, but exciting. I'm also going to post a million photos because I was feeling artistic that weekend and because the batteries in my camera refused to die.


My parents arrived on Friday morning. (Not last Friday, the one before that.) It's nigh on impossible to sleep on trans-A flights so they were exhausted when they landed, but were determined to fight their way through the day without napping so they could adjust to the new time zone. I know that's the best way to do it, but bloody hell it sucks.

We got them settled into the flat they rented and immediately left again, got on a train, and went to Bath. Mom has always wanted to see it and it's a World Heritage Site blah blah blah.

First stop: Bath Abbey

This is the best tomb I have ever seen. The husband is seen gazing mournfully upon the body of his still wife. I like this because it's both sad and tender, and also very original. It's the only tomb I've ever seen where one of the effigies is carved in a life pose, rather than a dead state. Sadly, the husband died many years after his wife and was buried elsewhere, despite his original intention when he had the tomb created. *sniff*

This a lovely side altar in one of the chapel of the abbey. Stunning. Almost enough to make me want to convert back. (Almost.)

The organ of the abbey, as see from the quire. Note the pretty reflection of light off the brass candle holder. That's art, that is. The organ was stunning, and we got to hear the organist at his craft as he rehearsed for a concert that was to take place the following day.

From there we went next door to the Roman Baths, which were amazing. They were far more extinsive than I'd imagined, and there was a great deal still in tact. What wasn't in tact was skillfully represented with simple wood carvings or CGI images to aid the imagination. The whole thing was really really well done; one of the best museum/historical sites I've ever visited. I'd certainly never seen anything that old before. Made the medieval stuff seem nearly modern by comparison. Oh, and there was this cool actor who dressed like a Roman priest and said incantations and stuff. I took a photo of his feet. And the audio tour was done by Bill Bryson, which rocked.

The head of Minerva. Just as creepy today as it was 2000 years ago.

The drain. Still working. The baths are Britains only natural hot spring, and the water that continuously bubbles up from the ground has to go somehwere. This is where it goes. Just as creepy today as it was 2000 years ago.

The feet of the priest. Just as smelly as they were 2000 years ago.

After the baths it was time for dinner. Pirate met us at the restaurant and we had a delightful meal. Which was good because by that time mom was walked off her feet and was starting to get testy. Follwing dinner the four of went to see The Importance of Being Earnest at the Theatre Royal starring Penelope Keith. (Fucking hell could I possibly squeeze in any more links???)

The ceiling of the Theatre Royal. You see what I mean about artsy?
Ha! Take that, Annie Rhiannon!

The play was light and entertaining, as Oscar Wilde should be, (and frankly we were so tired we didn't have the mental capacity for anything heavier than O.W.) and afterward Pirate and I walked the parental units back to the train station, but them on the train to Temple Meads, and went back to the Pirate's house for a good night sleep. It was our only chance that whole weekend for a shag and we completely crapped out. We're getting old.


The next day was Meet The Pirates Day.

I was bricking it. Mr. and Mrs. Pirate and lovely, lovely, wonderful, warm and welcoming people. They're also fairly religious and conservative. "Gosh!" is what passes for strong language in the Pirate household. If there was a BitchParent-PirateParent dictionary, an entry might look something like this:

What the goddamn fucking hell is going on here?!?!?! "gosh."

Yeah. Also my father is Hometown's most vocal atheist and loves to go on diatribes about how Christians are ruining western civilization. If he lit into one of his rants it would spell disaster. On top of all that he kept threatening to say to Mr. Pirate (in jest) "What exaclty do you plan to do about your son debauching my daughter??" I told this to the Pirate, who thought it was hysterically funny. The worst thing my mom was likely to do was accidently say "fuck" in every sentence, which is normal in our house. This wouldn 't have been too bad since I'm pretty sure Mr. and Mrs. Pirate have never heard the word "fuck" before, and would have dismissed it as a charming American colloquialism.

The Pirates had the idea that we'd all go off and visit Berkeley Castle.

Now, I love castles in general. I'll cheerfully wander around ruined ones, poking my head into all the drippy crevaces and stumbling down the decaying stairs, and enjoy them as much as the more in-tact specimins. But even I have to admit that Berkely Castly is exceptionally spectacular. It's been inhabited continously by the same family for over 900 years, and they're still there. *choke!*

So Friday night after the theatre Pirate phoned his parents, who were staying at a hotel on the north side of town, to work out details of meeting up the following day. Mrs. Pirate (gee I hope I get to use that name some day!) wanted to meet at 10 am. My parents were jet-lagged, had been up for something like 76 hours straight at that point, and were on the verge of standing unconsciousness. Once they fell asleep they were unlikey to wake up before 5 pm the following day. I managed to pusurade Mrs. Pirate to push back the meeting to 11 am and prayed my parents would be able to peel themselves off the mattress in time.

Pirate and I walked mom and dad from the theatre in Bath to the train station, put them on a train to Bristol, gave them my cell phone so they could reach us if there was a problem, and crossed our fingers they could manage getting a taxi from the station to their rented flat in an english-speaking country without difficulties. They managed it, somehow.

I went home with the Pirate.

The following morning: P-Day.

We got the Aston out of the garridge and drove into Bristol to collect my parents. Really, there are few things better than a ride in a shining car on a shining day. (Being driven by your own Pirate in shining armor. or shining Aston, as the case may be.) Mom and dad weren't expecting The Big Car (as it is now known), and were delighted to have a ride, even though the back seat is barely an afterthought. The car may be huge, the but the back seat only accounts for about 1.7% of the body length.

We headed north to Meet the Pirates.

They were standing in the parking lot of their hotel, so eager were they to meet my family. Bless them, they couldn't bear to be seated in the hotel lounge like normal people for a minute longer. They, of course, recognized the car instantly. If only it had a cool horn, like the General Lee, only one that plays Rule Brittania instead of Dixie...

cue the hugging.

oh my was there hugging. Mr. Pirate, true to form, got me into a vice-grip that would have made a bear's eyes bug, smashed his lips against my cheek for like, an hour or somehting, and wouldn't let me go until Pirate pointed out that my fingernails were going blue and that I might perhaps like some more oxygen.

cue the gift-giving.

Everyone had brought "just a little something" for everyone else. mom and dad brought cherry preserve from Michigan (cherry capital of the world) and a mug from the FSM, the theatre company mom runs. Pirates brought lancashire cheese for mom and a DVD of British naval aircraft for dad. So that was all nice and friendly, wasn't it?

Then off to the castle!

Mom and I jumped in the Pirates' Jag and dad got back in the Pirate's Aston (you have to look at the clever use of singular and plural possessive apostrophes to figure out what's really going on in that sentence) and headed off. And I have to say...

Berkeley Castle is fucking amazing. I won't bore you with all the history of the castle since I know you're far more interested in me and my exciting life, but do take a look at their website. It's a cool fucking castle.

The last bloom on the Magnolia tree.
That's the Pirate and his dad over there on the left.

Mr. and Mrs. Bitch in the castle gardens.

A window of the still-occupied part of the castle. Someone's a bird-lover! (Isn't this great? A 15th century castle and someone's gone and stuck bird feeders all over it. How cool is that! I guess when you live in a 15th c castle you can do pretty much whatever the fuck you want, because your cool rating is already off the scale.)

We got there around noon (just as they were opening, so it's a good thing we didn't meet up any earlier after all) and took a tour. Then we had tea in the tea room (as you do) and took a wander through the gardens, the old churchyard, and the church next door. Then we went through the butterfly house, which was also awesome. And then it was 4 pm, we were all walked off our feet, our dinner reservations weren't until 7, and we all sat around scratching our butts wondering what to do next.

(My biggest worry about this day was actually that people would simply run out of things to talk about and get bored, and by 4 o'clock things started tipping dangerously in that direction. I would have been happy just to have gotten everyone together for dinner, but Mrs. and Mr. Pirate were all keen on sight-seeing, and they're just not the sort of people to whom one says 'no.')

Also, I was exhausted and on the verge of falling asleep standing up. We decided to split up again, Pirate taking me back to his house for an LLD (little lie down, aka tactical kip) and Mr. and Mrs. Pirate taking my parents to a country pub for a few drinks before dinner. We would all meet up at the restaurant later.

'Oh God,' I thought. 'We can't leave the parents alone together. I have to be there to supervise.' But no, things had been decided, and these just aren't the sort of people to whom one says 'no.'

I crashed. I curled up in the double futon where we sleep when I'm over and just crashed. I vaguely remember Pirate leaning over and kissing my forehead before going out to wash and polish the car. (It was a nice day. He's got a new toy. You do the math.) I thought i'd doze for about 20 or 30 minutes. Nope! 90 minutes later I was dead to the world and Pirate came in and said "It's time to leave for the restaurant."

Ack!!!

Stuffed myself into my clothes and dashed out the door.

We booked reservations at The Quarryman's Arms, mine and Pirate's favourite country pub. It's a proper country pub, where people wander in on a saturday wearing tweeds and wellies, carrying a shotgun over one arm, and dragging 3 exhausted and wet labadors in tow. It's not a real pub unless there's a gun-dog under every table, compliments of the management.

They do awesome food there. I recommend the pheasant. The roast lamb is also to die for, as is the pork tenderloin with apricots and figs. And the views over the valley aren't bad either. We asked for the table by the west window, so we could watch the sunset from where we sat.

Ok, now i'm making myself hungary. But you can see why I wanted to take my parents there. It's a quintessential ENGLISH experience. And everyone had a lovely time.

Several hours, waaaaaaaay too much food, 2 bottles of (very expensive) wine and a cheerful conversation later we were all saying 'goodbye' in the parking lot and there was another round of hugging with lots of promises of communication and well-wishing. I only grimaced once during the course of the evening when Mr. Pirate raised a toast "to family" and elbowed his son in the ribs. Not too subtle, that one.

So they love me, they love my parents, everything's all good. I know what I want. I'm just waiting for the Pirate to make up his mind and crossing my fingers that in the end, he wants the same thing as me.

Good news all around us!

My parent's are arriving in 12 hours! From America! For 5 days! On their way to France to spend to weeks with their best friends in a farmhouse in Bordeaux getting plottzed! Yay for parents!

On Saturday they will be....

...meeting the Pirate's parents. Dun-dun-dun-duh!

Yikes. and Yay. I didn't get much sleep last night. I'm all a muddle. There won't be much (any) blogging here for about a week while I play tour guide and take my parents around Brizzle, but this should provide enough joy to get you through:

San Diego's mayor has a genuine change of heart and signs into action a bill in support of gay marraige.

It's been so long since there's been good news on the LGBT front, I thought this deserved a mention. I almost cried watching it. I hope he runs for governor.

Song of Innocence

I almost didn't notice that today is the Fourth of July. You would think that for a cheerful expat happily living in the country from which America violently liberated itself over 200 years ago Independence Day would be a day of shame and regret, not pride and joy. And yet...

I don't have a lot of political associations with the day, but I do have a lot of memories of intense happiness, innocence, and frivolity. I LOVE the Fourth of July. For years it was my favorite holiday. The Fourth for me is a bit like Christmas is for people like, well, like me. The original intent of the holiday has been all but forgotten, but that doesn't negate the joy brought about by family traditions and celebrations.

This is what the Fourth of July was like in days of yore...


I grew up in a small city neighborhood. It was a dead-end street on the south end of town comprised of 23 homes and as many huge silver maple trees lining the street. The houses were built in the 1920s, and each home was unique. It was a quiet street, and as kids we used to sit on the porch in the summer eating watermelon and cherries (we weren't allowed to eat fruit in the house -- we lived in an agricultural state and fresh produce in the summer was so sweet and juicy you couldn't eat it without making a huge mess) and have contests to see who could spit their seeds the fartherst. There were no cars except the residents and the occassional idiot who thought he could use our street as a shortcut to dodge two sets of traffic lights, and would get really annoyed when he would discover the dead end. We thought this was endlessly funny and used to point and giggle and these directionally-challenged people (who invariably drove big huge Lincolns or Caddies and drove at 6 mph).

It was a close-knit neighboorhood, too. By the time I was 7 I knew every person on the street and they all knew me. Same went for all the kids. Most of the grown-ups worked either at the local utility (like my dad) or were teachers.* Us kids were allowed to play in most anyone's yard (we knew who the exceptions were), and if anything went wrong we would be looked after by whoever was nearest at hand. By the same token, if we ever misbehaved we were certain to be caught and recognized and a phonecall made to mom and dad before we even managed to get home.

*One year when the public school teachers threatened to strike our neighborhood had a little meeting and decided it wasn't a big deal because among them there was someone amply qualified to teach every subject at every level, so they were just going to open a neighborhood school and go at it the old-fashioned way. I always was bummed that the teachers' union managed to sort their problems out, because I reckon a neighborhood school would have vastly superior to the Catholic Prison I was attending at the time.

There were regular parties and get-togethers throughout the year. A "Progressive Dinner" at Christmastime, when each course would be served at a different home (no kids at that one), a corn roast on Labor Day to celebrate the harvest, a Graffiti Party on July 3 (more about that later perhaps), and the big one on the 4th.

The custom was that the newest residents on the street were put in charge of organizing the thing, which gauranteed that they had to meet everyone on the block and get involved. ("Welcome to the neighborhood! Guess what!") It was our equivalent of a hazing ritual, but it worked. And let me tell you, there were logistics to be worked out. (Though to be fair the 4th of July block party had been going on so long pretty much everyone knew their assigned role and did it whether or not the newbie organizers thought of it.)

• Bob had to arrange for and collect and set up the barricades so the street could be closed off to traffic. (This was important because of the fireworks at the park in the evening. If we didn't close off the street it became a giant parking lot by sunset.) It was his job because he was the only one with a pickup.
  
• The bed-grill had to be dug out and set up.
• Someone had to buy a dozen bags of charcoal, 50 pounds of chicken quarters, and 2 gallons of BBQ sauce
• Someone had to arrange for, pick up, and tap the keg. (Technically open containers of alcohol are not legal on municipal property, which the "islands" were, but one of the residents was the county deputy sherrif, and he knew that no one ever got drunk, misbehaved, or served alcohol to a minor, so he didn't care. Although the minors did have to serve the beer. We were glorified gofers, and I leared to pull a pint at the age of 8.)
• Someone had to get plastic cups, plates, cutlery, and napkins.
• Someone had to bring out a big washtub for the pop cans and enough ice to last that day.
• Someone had to get prizes for the kids' bike parade and make up silly awards ("Best use of pink streamers," "Best one-handed riding," that sort of thing.)
• Someone had to get a giant pile of sawdust from the local lumber yard and a bazillion pennies to dump in it
• Someone had to procure 2 big watermelons and hide them the night before, along with a trail of clues leading to their location. This was usually done at the graffiti party by our intoxicated parents the night before, and I can remember years when the clues were written and hidden when the poor volunteer had had a few too many, and the following day the clues didn't make any sense and the hider and forgotten where he'd hid the melons. Good times. :-)
• And of course there needed to be water balloons. And tug of war (over a plastic wading pool, naturally.) And sack races. etc. And prizes for all of the above.
• And everyone had to bring a passing dish to share. Joanne made the best baked beans in the history of the world.
  

There was an order to the festivities, an almost ritual-like adherence to tradition. The day started as soon a my brother and I awoke. Invariably it was a hot, sunny day. The pavement burned our bare feet (but who wears shoes when schoool's out?), and the grass was already getting prickly and dry. I insisted on wearing red, white, and blue every year. Marley (my brother) couldn't have cared less. The first order of business after a nourishing breakfast of whatever we could scavenge (usually Chef Boyardee and purple Kool Aid) was to decorate our bikes.

If dad hadn't already bought enough red, white, and blue crepe paper and scotch tape he got yelled at and had to rectify the situation immediately. I used to spend hours in the drive way covering every inch of my bike in the crinkly, patriotic toilet paper. Every bit of frame, streamers from the handle bars, and we'd weave it in and out of the spokes so the wheels were solid colors as well. If we were feeling especially ambitious we add things like pinwheels, action figures (G.I. Joe of course) or stuffed animals (in my case).

The hours between the completion of our two-wheeled modern art projects and the parade that began the party were the slowest hours of the year. Marley was a much calmer child, but I couldn't wait for things to get underway. I would run around the street making a nuissance of myself and trying to help everyone with everything and all the setting up. Slowly around lunch time people would being drifting out towards the center island with their lawn chairs and drink holders. Eventually, after a sizeable crowd had gathered, someone would give the signal for the kids to get their bikes, and...

... they're off!

Around and around we'd go, doing laps of the circular course until whichever dad was in charge that year had managed to formulate rediculous awards for us all. We would be called to a halt, line up our bikes neatly, stand at attention, and wait for our names. One by one we came forth, grinned at whatever corny honor was betowed upon us, accepted our brown paper goody bag with glee, and shook the hand of the presenter. The grown-ups clapped, and we took one more lap to give everyone a final opportunity to admire our patriotic velociped creations. And then we ran off to look at our loot and begin swapping the stuff we didn't want.

A variety of games then followed, including the water-balloon toss, which was remarkable organized. Dad used to bring out the water balloons in the wheelbarrow, all brightly jiggling in the hot yellow sunglight, a bouncing rainbow of cool wetness and squeaking rubber. Play proceeded as follows: Get a partner. Stand toe-to-toe along a chalk line in the road, all the pairs standing shoulder to shoulder. Pass the water balloon to your partner. Take a step backwards. Each time to throw the balloon, take another step. Keep passing the balloon back and forth between you, getting incrementally further apart. The pair who makes it the fartherst without breaking their balloon wins.

You wouldn't believe how much fun this is. And it's as much fun to watch as it is to play. When it gets down to 2 or three pairs the crowd starts going nuts and everyone yells "Oh!" when someone barely saves their balloon from breaking and the cringing runs through the spectators like a Mexican wave.

Slowly the game degernates into a free-for-all, with the remaining balloons being used in guerilla attacks and snowball-like water wars. My god those were the days.

Eventually it's time for dinner, and 4x8 sheets of plywood are set up on the saw horses to make buffet tables. Everyone brings out their folding card tables and plastic patio furntiure, someone has been slaving over a hot bed of coals (literally) for hours burning the chicken until it's perfect (perfectly black) which is now presented in a giant tub, and the kids are sent to wash their hands. The buffet becomes full of nacho salad, seven layer salad, potato salad, pasta salad, baked beans, fruit salad, and cole slaw. We all help ourselves to whatever we want and sit down somewhere, maybe with our own family, maybe at someone else's table.

Now, there is a particular order to the after-dinner games. The penny scramble is the last game of the day, but there's no point in doing that until all the kids have been covered in watermelon juice (ergo, sticky). But first the watermelons must be located! So the kids are divided up into two teams, each team is given its first clue, and they're off! Watermelons can't be inside houses, but short of that anything goes. Once they were even burried. First team to find their melon wins.

The watermelons are then sliced, seved, and eaten (with accompanying seed-spitting contenst, naturally). After the chillens are good and goopy, the penny scramble begins. A tarp is laid out on the ground, several garbage bags full of sawdust are dumped on the tarp, and giant piles of loose change are dumped into the sawdust. The smallest kids go first and get 5 minutes or so to dig around, then the older kids and so on. It's awesome. It's the modern equivalent of tarring and feathering, but instead of doing it to convicts it's done to children. It's not considered child abuse becase at the end of it, if you've been doing really well, you are $1.38 richer than you were before dinner, so no complaints!

As the sun turned orange and dipped below the house top it was time to fold up the lawn chairs, gather the remains of the potato salad, and begin packing it in. Kids were ordered to dust themselves off (outside), remove their clothes (also outside) and march inside and get the in the bath. Clothes were either then taken directly to the wash via a strategically held pitch-fork, or simply burned where they lay on the sidewalk.**

**I jest. Sort of.

All squeaky clean and in our jammies, it was time to lather up in carcinogenic insect repellent, grab the lawn chairs yet again, and wander up to the top of the street (grabbing a leftover piece of cold chicken from the tub on the way) where the neighborhood was once again assembling, this time to watch the fireworks. We had an excellent view from the top of the street, overlooking the park where the rockets' red glare lit up the indigo sky. We all shouted "Ooh" and "Aah" together and rated them on a scale of one to ten, Olympic-heckler style. Our towns fireworks were never all that great. They set them off one at a time to drag the show out as a long as possible, so you got to appreciate each firework individually. There were far more "2s" than "10s," but that wasn't the point.

The point was to spend time together as a community, and we were. We were a real community. We knew each other and looked out for each other and yelled at each other's kids and took banana bread to the new people. As kids we played in the street and never worried about a thing; the biggest danger we faced was falling off our bikes and getting a knee full of gravel. (No one wore helmets or knee pads back then.)

So the 4th of July for me was never about independence from the (now defunct) British Empire, or freedom from taxation without representation. It was never about self-governance, liberty, or flag-waving. It was a holiday of celebrating the summer with friends, family, community, barbequed chicken, watermelon, and sawdust. It was about being a kid, being barefoot, and, well, being free; free to throw water balloons at grown-ups, free to stay up past bedtime, free to play outside and eat cold chicken in your pj's, to listen to the drone of the cicadas during the day and the chirp of the crickets at night in total security, free to be completely innocent.

(click to make legible)

The block party doesn't happen any more. None of the annual parties do. By the time I was a teenager the character of the neighborhood had changed dramatically. The new families didn't want anything to do with block parties; they thought it was wierd. They put up tall fences around their yard and kept their children inside them. They installed air conditioning and sat inside all summer, instead of on the porch in the evening to catch the cool breeze and chitchat with whoever strolled by. They bought their kids nintendos instead of bicycles, DVD players instead of slip-n-slides, and the kids stayed indoors. They don't know each other. I don't know them. No one knows anyone. And everyone is afraid. They are afraid because they fear what they don't know, and they don't know their nighbors.

When I ws 16 I tried to organize the 4th of July party on my own. But no one wanted to come. The people thought "who is this stranger person at our door?" and told me they would be out of town. On the 4th of July I put my lawn chair out on the island and sat there for hours, hoping someone would join me, but no one came.


One final note: None of the above photos are my own. I nabbed them from tinternet because all my old pics of my family and memories are in albums back in the States, and thus inaccessible to me via compooter. Sorry if I knicked one of yours. It was with the best of intentions.