The Planet Will Be Just Fine Without Us

There was a recent article in the NY Times that the website Epicurious had stopped publishing beef recipes. They had done so for some time but no one apparently noticed until they announced they had done so. Then loads of folks got up in arms about it, which mystifies me. I mean, they haven't removed their old beef recipes - and how many ways does one need to have to cook something which is generally agreed not to be great for the planet or for human health if consumed too much. Personally, I applaud Epicurious for having done the obvious that so many others haven't.

I am aware that we are in a pickle if we don't drop our carbon emissions drastically in the coming years. There is an increasing amount of information about this in the media, but not a lot seems to be changing. I mean, everyone knows - or should - that flying is a really bad idea, but newspapers still have travel columns extolling a holiday in some faraway place. My WI magazine still advertises luxury cruises (also a climate nightmare). Recipes for beef continue as normal as well as all the cheap fashion shops with online outlets.

The UK government will ban sale of petrol and diesel cars in the near future. We've been discussing the purchase of a hybrid, should they still be available, when this car gives up the ghost. 

One could be forgiven for thinking, "Well, it's an 'emergency', but not really an "EMERGENCY." We do get a lot of mixed messaging. Like the fact that the UK government removed the tax breaks that had been attached to environmentally friendly purchases such as solar panels. That they set up a green housing scheme but then abandoned it shortly after. There has been a planning application approved for a new coal mine in Cumbria. The inconsistency is fairly confusing.

I do think we should stop saying 'Save the Planet', because the planet doesn't really need saving. Sure, we've wrecked a good bit of it and killed off an awful lot of plants and animals, if not entire ecosystems. However the planet was around long before homo sapiens developed and will likely be around - sun failure or major cosmic collision aside - for a terribly long time after we've starved or nuked ourselves out of existence. Other species will arise out of what's left and plants will overtake the empty cities and the planet will just carry on. I think Sixth Extinction is a better term, but perhaps we should make it even plainer: Extinction of the Human Race. 

I know that we humans are more attuned to thinking short term - looking forward to our next vacation, what's on my calender this week, what's for dinner tonight. Mind, the really rich guys - Bezos, Musk and even Branson all have space programmes. Presumably they've already given up on Saving the Planet and are looking for Planet B - or perhaps just a space station. I can't think of a less attractive proposition myself. Or perhaps they only want to offer a new sort of vacation. The ironic thing is that space programmes are even worse than airline flights for carbon emissions. So whether they are looking for a new home or just how to get away from this one for a while, they are helping to kill us all off.

Do I spend a great deal of time worrying about this? No. I don't expect to live long enough to see the really hard times. Also, I think we are fairly resilient in that we live - I was going to say 'quietly' but I think the word is 'modestly'. We eat very little beef, no lamb, more and more beans and grains and seasonal vegetables. We strive for a zero waste kitchen; our waste bin could be emptied every two or three months, but our recycling bin is much fuller. We seek re-uses for the packaging that comes into our house. We both wear our clothes to rags, walk for most errands, keep a car until no longer serviceable, haven't flown in two, perhaps three, years. I buy most of my clothes and books second hand. Neither of us routinely showers every day, but when needed - closer to twice a week. We wash our clothes after several wears and recently purchased a 'guppy's friend' washing bag. My crafting tends to be to make useful items, not just 'stuff' and I mend our clothes and household linens regularly. Our Christmas tree is at least 20 years old and the ornaments are from the mid-1940s on, bar the lights. We use brown paper wrapping or re-useable fabrics and Bill's kids are used to me retrieving bows and ribbons for re-use. In the past few years we've taken to exchanging food hampers rather than tat as gifts. I build a wishlist rather than buy every book or sewing kit I want and ask for these at birthdays and Christmas. I quit shopping on Amazon about three years ago. 

I looked into heating our house electrically and it would cost four times as much as using gas, so that hasn't changed yet. I could easily heat one room at a time, but Bill can't cope with that. The main need of our car is for Bill's walking expeditions, requiring him to meet up early on weekend mornings to obscure places, negating the use of public transport. I must admit I prefer to drive to any necessary places if it's pouring outside. I am in the habit of turning out the lights when leaving a room, but I sometimes forget and leave the oven on or time my jar heating badly when making jam. While we're both prepared to put on extra layers of clothing rather than turn up the thermostat (set at 19 C / 66 F), when my fingers are cold, I want be warmer. Our heating goes off at night. Our duvet is more than adequate in this temperate climate.

I still hope to meet my Norwegian cousins in the US and see the house in South Dakota and I still have family and friends in the US I'd like to see. I intend to make more trips at some point, depending upon how the pandemic goes. I would still like to see Norway and explore the area my Dad's ancestors inhabited. I can likely reach Norway via boat, but I can't envision boat travel all the way to the US. I know at some point I won't be able to manage long haul travel and there will come a point when I won't ever see my uncles again. As long as they are alive, I'm content to intend to see them, if that makes any sense. Perhaps only a procrastinator would understand that. 

Bill and I could potentially live in a much smaller house, however we have deemed this one to be our 'forever house'. Bill has already stated that if he survives me he is likely to sell and move closer to one of his children. Lately, however, he has come to appreciate the social contacts he has here and realises those would be hard to replace. If I survive Bill I expect to stay here for as long as possible - probably heating one room at a time. We are discussing what improvements are feasible to make the house more air-tight. 

Have you given any thought to reducing your carbon footprint?

National Unplug Day: Sundown March 6th to Sundown March 7th

I grabbed a link several years ago that I've just recently rediscovered. It was about something called the Sabbath Manifesto, something to do with some Jewish organisation and something called 'Reboot', which is basically about slowing life down.  The original thing that attracted me was their "Ten Principles" for observing a weekly day of rest:

• Avoid technology
• Connect with loved ones
• Nurture your health
• Get outside
• Avoid commerce
• Light candles
• Drink wine
• Eat bread
• Find silence
• Give back

What's not to love?

I spend a fair amount of time on my computer, but it's been several years since I carried a functional mobile phone. I keep meaning to get that taken care of, just for emergencies, but it's clearly not a high priority for me.  I am appalled when I see the behaviour of a lot of people who carry these 'smart phone' things, particularly when they are supposedly in social settings. It is so incredibly rude to ignore someone you're out with and I can't imagine how hurtful it must be to feel you have to compete with a little box for someone's attention. They are both wonderful gadgets and horrible, foul things, these screens that hold us prisoner. The National Day of Unplugging has this brilliant / funny / sad video that shows just what we are doing when we stare at a screen instead of engaging with a person. 

Selfies: don't even get me started - I just don't get them!

I have lately been less on Facebook or blog-reading than at my sewing machine / out running / reading a book, which is good, but I could certainly improve a lot more. I may give this 6-7 March thing a go and see how that feels. 

The New and Old in My Hometown

I’ve not lived in Oklahoma City since I was 35, back in the 19^th Century; 1991 to be precise. A few things have changed in OKC over the years. (Warning, I may sound like a cranky old woman in the next few paragraphs.) There were also some familiar things that gave me comfort.

The Devon tower has sprouted like the bean-stalk since our last visit. I had to laugh, though I couldn’t get a good photo, when one very rainy day the low hanging clouds rested neatly atop every other downtown building, swallowing the top half of the Devon. Served them right for the height of their arrogance, I thought.

Looks stupid, right? (Source, Wikipedia)

The place is littered with some sort of birds with iridescent black feathers and long tails. I'd guess they were grackles, but these had longer necks. They should have been pretty, except for looking ratty, with feathers all askew. The phrase ‘dragged through a bush backwards’ came to mind. 

Hotel buffets don't provide milk for your coffee: it’s either half and half (milk / cream), or something vanilla or caramel flavoured, all disgusting to someone accustomed to enjoying skimmed milk. I bought the skinniest milk I could find in groceries. 

I figure the Waltons are rich enough already so I skipped visiting WalMart. The next nearest grocery store to our hotel seemed to be a Buy for Less on on SW 27th Street. That is a Hispanic neighbourhood now, judging from the large selection of tortillas and peppers on offer. I was very pleased to see so many healthy foods available for under $1 a pound and it was fun to wonder what they did with banana leaves and what looked like cactus leaves.  We tried to save money and calories by having 'room picnics' and so long as our hotels had a fridge and a microwave we were all set. 

North wind. (Love the dramatic skies!)

Beyond choosing salads for lunch – the only food I was certain didn’t come straight out of a freezer and into a microwave - I found it pretty difficult to eat healthily in restaurants. Part of this was my wish to re-visit old favourites like BBQ ribs, chicken-fried steak, Johnnie’s onion rings (alas, they have changed) and Tex-Mex food, so I can’t blame it entirely on the restaurant business. With a few delicious exceptions, I thought many places served nothing but deep fried or watered down slop. There is so much batter or cheese sauce (a nasty surprise) on veggies, no health benefit can remain. It’s a miracle I only gained six pounds on this trip, though we did walk a lot and drank gallons of water and unsweetened iced tea. 

That was something else new: iced tea used to come with ice, tea and lemon if you asked for it. You added sugar from the table dispenser – or not. No sugar on the table any more, not that I mind, but what exactly goes into sweetened tea?  I hadn’t realized until this trip how spoiled I have become, eating at home. I guess I am now a healthy food snob, or maybe just a control freak. All I know is that after a week in Oklahoma City I didn’t feel as well as when I arrived. Looking at menus and grocery shelves I started to understand more about America’s health problems.

Aack! Didn't realise David Carradine was dead! (sorry)

It’s not just restaurants that are hazardous to your health, apparently. When I went to the state health department to get birth/death certificates for my genealogy research (no chance, more of which later), we had to get past two guards, stating our purpose and showing photo ID. I was amazed. They said they would soon be installing metal detectors as well. I asked if there had been incidents but they said not, it was just being done. I don’t know whether to be sad about everyone’s fear or happy they are creating jobs.

South wind.

What used to be nice streets are now very run down.  A few of the old neighbourhoods have kept their value but some of the older houses I used to think were grand and elegant looked old and tired, though they still looked cared for. Perhaps I’ve just become accustomed to the grandeur of European architecture? I’m not sure that explains it, but I was sad not to be thrilled by those houses any more.

I visited some shops I used to think were fairly nice and I was shocked at how run down the buildings were, what cheap tat they offered. Places that used to offer brilliant London Fog coats with detachable hoods and linings – just the ticket to get me through British winters at the bus stop – now sell cheap clothes, Halloween costumes and candy. I didn’t find a single coat worth carrying home with me. I’ll have to aim higher next time, I guess.

I did visit 50 Penn Place (I remember Grandma and Grandpa being awed at the size of the car park when it was built as Penn Square Mall near their home). I found shoes and NYDJ’s at Dillards (Bill keeps saying DillArds, not DillErds, which cracks me up) and some blouses at Ann Taylor. I think I spent about $300 on clothes which will do me for some time. I didn’t visit my usual PayLess Shoes, vowing to try out the idea that better shoes last longer. We’ll see how that goes.

I had a great time visiting my old office, where I had probably the best job of my whole life. I hunted down the few remaining people that I used to work with and it was great to see and talk with them. 

I got the impression that Oklahoma hasn’t really experienced much of the recession. There were signs all over the place ‘now hiring’. Perhaps age has caught up with the suburbs that were once fashionable and the nice parts are now further out, or back in the wonderful Bricktown area near downtown where I see there are something like row houses being built.

Some things about OKC were still familiar. I met some bugs I knew. I wouldn’t call them ‘old friends’ but they reminded me of my childhood and are much different to the few British bugs I’ve seen (one of my favourite things about where I live, the dearth of horrible insects).

I say siKAda; Bill says SIKuhduh. This one says nothing - likely dead, but I didn't check.

I was pleased to find that they still have proper sized pumpkins (too big to carry), not the silly little ones sold in Britain as ‘large’ – that always makes me laugh. I loved the huge plums but was perplexed by diminutive bananas; what is their purpose? 

The old money section, Nichols Hills, still has lawn sprinklers that shower on in spite of pouring rain. It looks ridiculous, but no one thinks to turn them off; a great example of ‘conspicuous consumption’.

Sept 11

The searing heat – in the middle to upper 90s – was also familiar, though I was so cold in the air conditioned places the heat was nearly welcome. I didn't seem to use my sweater much, I migrated between frozen and fried. 

I used to hate the ever-present winds, but at least they counteract the heat…and are also useful for unfurling flags.

The Truth about Faeries

Yes, we are still at the Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens...

The main exhibit at the museum was called The Truth about Faeries.  It was in a large room, with some sort of fairyland hut for the kiddie-winkies to flap about in their faerie wings.  Vivien and I inspected every inch of the room except that particular part, having left our wings at home.  I was frustrated at not being able to take photos, because there were some beautiful things on display.  Instead I got out my notebook and scribbled five pages of names of authors and artists.  I've spent the last few days looking up those names on the Internet, trying to make sense of it all.   I'm not sure I've got there, but I'll share what I learned. 

I did think it was very sweet of Vivien when she, in all seriousness, politely asked me if I believed in faeries.  I actually had the impression that she was prepared to hear me say I did!  It's one of the ways in which I think most Brits are far more courteous than Americans; they generally allow you to have your own view, even if they don't agree at all.   I think that's really lovely and it's one of the nicer things about living here - I get to have my own opinion without having to join the debating society.


However, I had to admit that, no, I don't believe in faeries at all, but I do see why the idea is so attractive to children - and adults - and that the artistic attempts to represent faeries are incredibly beautiful.  She then stated that, being a scientist, she didn't believe in faeries either.  It was originally the pictures that I wanted to share, but as I looked up the names, I found a slightly different story emerged.  I don't think I can tell the story accurately, but perhaps some of this will interest you enough to do some more reading.   In order to present this information to you, I've put the names into chronological order (I definitely am a left-brained person, sadly.  I've always wished for more artistic gifts.)  I found some fun things, or at least they were fun to me!


Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) was an English poet in the time of Elizabeth I.  His most famous work is called The Faerie Queene, a celebration of the Tudors and specifically, Elizabeth.  I would call it long and tedious, but I did find one thing we all know that he wrote because we often use the phrase 'without rhyme or reason'.  It was about asking Elizabeth for payment long overdue: 

I was promis'd on a time,

To have a reason for my rhyme:

But from that time unto this season,

I had neither rhyme or reason.

He got his money!


Shakespeare (1564-1615).  Obviously, I don't need to tell you who this man was or that he wrote a brilliant play about faeries (I'm rather fond of the British spelling, you'll notice) called Midsummer Night's Dream.  If you want to read more about the faeries in this play, this link might interest you.   I can't stand Shakespeare as a rule.  I don't understand what I read or hear, but this play is an exception.  If you've not seen it, I would recommend the film with Michelle Pfeiffer.  I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but if you've not read Bill Bryson's book, Shakespeare: The World as a Stage,  you've missed a treat.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744) was another English poet.  He seems to have specialised in satire which made him somewhat unpopular at times.  His link to faeries isn't immediately obvious.  However, it appears that in his poem, The Rape of the Lock, he makes fun of a squabble between some aristocrats of his day, likening it to a war between the gods; somewhere I read that there is a 'continuum between mythology and fairy tales'.  In this poem he introduces the term, sylph.  Pope was apparently quoted as saying he thought woodland sprites and the like were perhaps dead socialites who didn't want to give up their earthly delights.  This last link gives a reasonable history of the mention of faeries, I believe.  However, they do seem to take their topic far more seriously than I.  Pope, by the way, was the man who gave us 'a little learning is a dangerous thing'...


Charles Perrault (1628-1703) was a French author who took tales from folk lore and created the new literary genre of fairy tales, with a book called the Tales of Mother Goose.    Interestingly, he was friends with a man, Philippe Quinault, who is said to have created the new genre of music, opera.  The Sunderland exhibit said that Perrault wrote
Mother Goose for the royal court.  Whilst he was influential in the court of Louis XIV and did write pieces for specific people earlier in his career, according to Wikipedia, the Mother Goose stories were written for his children after he lost his influential position.  It was lovely to be reminded of  "Little Red Riding Hood" (Le Petit Chaperon Rouge),  "Cinderella" (Cendrillon), Puss in Boots (Le Chat Botté) and   Bluebeard (La Barbe bleue).  Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project, says she loves reading - and re-reading - children's books.  After investigating all this faerie tale stuff, I'm thinking I need to renew my acquaintance with these stories as well!



"Sleeping Princess" by Viktor Vasnetsov;  Perrault also gave us this story.

William Blake (1757-1827) was a poet, painter and a printmaker (I think that's the same as an engraver, but I'm not certain).  I suspect he was also completely crackers, though he was undeniably creative and gifted.  He had visions all his life.   He seems to have been very religious, but he also believed in 'free love' and incorporated faeries - 'rulers of the vegetable world - into his 'idiosyncratic cosmology'.  I've always known the two lines of his famous poem: "Tyger!  Tyger! burning bright in the forests of the night!"  When I was a kid I thought it was fun to scare myself with this, but on the whole I find Blake as a person altogether too scary for fun.

Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing (1786, William Blake)

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), was a Scottish novelist whose name most people have heard.   I was sad to read in the Wikipedia entry that his popularity waned as Jane Austen's rose.  I remember from our visit to the Writers' Museum in Edinburgh that he died fairly broke.   Scott wrote about the 'fairies of popular superstition' in the Tale of Tamlane, part of his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.  I confess that I, too, would rather read Jane Austen.  It is a shame he died poor, but then he does have that glorious monument in Edinburgh!





Scott's monument is the pointed spire; Bill Bryson says it looks
like a gothic rocketship and I have to agree.

Brothers Grimm - Jacob (1785-1863) Wilhelm (1786-1859) were actually academics in the field of language and cultural research, not just a couple of creepy guys like I thought as a child.  They collected folklore and published the famous Grimm's Fairy Tales in 1812.  When I was given that book at about age 7-8, I read it front to back but never returned.  Some of the stories really frightened me!

In doing all this research, however, I enjoyed being reminded of the stories of  "Cinderella" (Aschenputtel), "The Frog Prince" (Der Froschkönig), "Hansel and Gretel" (Hänsel und Gretel), "Rapunzel", "Rumpelstiltskin"  (Rumpelstilzchen), "Sleeping Beauty" (Dornröschen), and "Snow White" (Schneewittchen).   The thing is, I do find them to all teach little girls to be helpless and wait for a man to come rescue her, or at least to  be sure to marry 'well'.  Also, beware older women, they are often evil witches (you bet we are!)

 
Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875) is perhaps Denmark's most famous export, author of just classics as "The Steadfast Tin Soldier", "Thumbelina", "The Snow Queen", "The Little Match Girl", "The Ugly Duckling", "The Little Mermaid", "The Emperor's New Clothes", and "The Princess and the Pea".  I must admit to not having read the first one, but Bill remembers it.  However, I think the Princess and the Pea might be my all time favourite fairy tale.  Even more now that I see it acted out several times a week here in Britain. 


I have commented how I find the staff in Tynemouth shops to be quite snooty.  A business transaction can rarely just be about a paying client having an ordinary request fulfilled and then making payment.  The transaction has to be about the staff member - nearly always a woman.  My perception is that she will require me to acknowledge that she is actually far too important for this menial job, that she is my social superior and that I must somehow pay obeisance to this superiority before she will condescend to grant my humble request.   It may well be entirely my imagination, but I see Princesses complaining about Peas in their body language, their attitudes and their studied accents.  I think this 'desperately middle class' hauteur is one of the less attractive aspects of British culture.  I know that the key to dealing with this is simply to be even more arrogant than she and to somehow snub her as a simple shop assistant.  I've seen some horrific snobs talking down to the store clerk or waitress who serves them; it's no wonder service in Britain is appalling.  I'm a fairly demanding customer (it's an American trait, I'm afraid), but this snobbery business is too ugly for me to stomach.  I don't want an obsequious salesperson either, I just want to do a business transaction.

I found it amusing to read the commentary that Andersen himself felt nervous amongst the the 'serene, secure and cultivated Danish bourgeoisie' and saw himself as sensitive enough to feel a pea through twenty mattresses.  Given that I'm the one who remarks on the haughty salesclerks (it's part of the dictionary.com definition!), perhaps I am the princess, after all!

Airport Adventures: Newcastle-Paris-Seattle

Experience has taught us to avoid Heathrow airport where ever possible. If anyone can lose your luggage, they can. In spite of the fact that Bill once picked up some very nice new clothes in Germany at the expense of the travel insurance people, lost luggage is not a fun start to a vacation. So, we travelled first to Paris. 

Now, the French people are lovely, but I'm not sure one could say organisational skills are their national forte. Changing planes at Charles de Gaulle was a nightmare; we couldn't tell which queue we were actually in, never mind if it was the right one. Also, see my point yesterday about airport security. I think they make up their own rules so they can enjoy their authority. However, we made the connection and saved all kinds of money not having time to do any shopping in the duty free area.   My purchase of a Chanel jacket will have to wait for another time.


Our long haul flight took us to Seattle, where we went through immigration. Having passports from different countries means Bill and I have to join separate queues. I'm always a bit uneasy, wondering where we might meet on the other side of passport control, as each airport is different. No doubt he remembers the layout of each one, but I sure don't. 

I was next-to-last in a very long queue. Sadly for me, the last two people were two 20-something American females, apparently having a soap opera life and no compunction about sharing the details. For about 20 minutes I heard: 

Hi Mom, no I'm not really in that much trouble. They knocked it down to just a misdemeanor so it won't go on my record. No, Mom, it's really OK, I won't have any jail time, just a fine. Yeah, I know, I know. No, really, Mom, like it's no big deal. I looked it up on the internet and I talked with their people and I just have to go to court, like show up and stuff. No, Mom, don't do that, don't. I can handle this, I'm not really in trouble, very much. Yeah, I know, Mom. Look, I need to go, I'm going through immigration now... 

She had at least another 10 minutes before her turn, but I'd have said the same, not that it did her any good. I could hear Mom - frustrated, yelling, ranting, bossing - because the phone was held so both girls could hear it, as well as the rest of the world (you know how those queues wrap back and forth putting loads of people in proximity?) Of course I, despising soap operas and public phone conversations, was in Hell. Can we please go back to phone booths?

I got through immigration of course, having the right sort of passport, don't you know, but then Bill didn't show for ages. I wondered if they'd decided he was a terrorist or if he'd got impatient waiting for me and wandered off. I doubled back behind the of row immigration officers and was relieved to find him still in the queue.   (Wearing a silly hat is very useful at times). 

Turns out the computer system had gone down and I was looking at a row of blank screens and impatient men wearing guns. I began to consider whether anyone in that endless queue needed a loo or if bedrolls would be provided.   According to what I overheard the system was 'only' down for 11 minutes. Strangely as soon as it came up one of the officers noticed me lurking and told me I had to move along. I moved a little, but hung about long enough to signal Bill where we could meet up.    We just had time to grab our bags - I'd spotted them ages ago - and make our connecting flight to Ontario.


That's not in Canada, by the way, it's a small airport outside of Los Angeles, about 20 minutes from Claremont, our first actual destination.

Burnt Out

I noticed a funny smell in the East Wing the other day.  I checked the iron, but it was cool.  Then I noticed that the screen on the PC no longer had a picture or an operations light, but the keyboard and the big box did have lights.  Bill confirmed my suspicion that the PC had burned itself out and we turned it off and left it to cool.

I'm typing this on a new laptop with which I've yet to make friends.  I'm sure there are many nice things about it, like the squillion times faster Internet, but the screen resolution isn't as good and I've spent a good deal of time trying to adjust settings and kill off all the garbage that new computers use to make you crazy. 

It seems so strange to be talking to you on a different computer that I almost feel I've lost my 'voice', like I'm starting all over again as a blogger...ridiculous.  Instead of whinging about what I don't like I need to count my blessings:

• I had the money to just go out and buy a new computer, even if I didn't allow myself to get a snazzy one.  We looked at Sonys and Macs and I walked away just as if they were Jaguar cars or Alexander McQueen dresses; nice to look at, but stupid prices.
•  Nothing was lost off the old PC:  I still have all my photos and...AND  I DON'T HAVE TO DO MY TAXES ALL OVER AGAIN!  I got all the way done to some last hitch on the Utah form and that's when the PC began to crumble.  I could have filed for an extension, but I think figuring out that puzzle once is sufficient punishment for having any income at all. 
• I have loads of posts written and all I need to do is add the photos and hit publish.  I never stopped having ideas or writing, they just aren't on this computer ... yet.  We've had loads of adventures the past few days, so all I have to do is be patient with this Japanese computer that was made in Germany and we'll be champion, right?

Unsettled

I got some information over the holidays that has thrown me off kilter.  We subscribe to ancestry.com, the commercial website that the LDS church has for people interested in doing genealogy.  Another  subscriber, named Camille, visited the historical society in Minnesota and found an index of names of adopted children, their dates of birth, their original names, date of adoption and the location of the adopting family.  As my family name is quite unusual, she was relatively certain that the name on the index would be the same person as the name on my family tree. She took it upon herself to contact me with this information and 'hoped that it would enhance my family research'.  I don't think she clocked that the adopted person was my father.

There are any number of certainies we all enjoy (or not) and take for granted.  I was absolutely certain that I knew about my family heritage and most of the quirks - mostly on my Mom's side of the family, it has to be said.  Part of me says I can't take something for granted and then turn around and say I cherish it, but you know we all do exactly that.  Certainly my blog posts about my family members are testiment that I love them, though I completely took them for granted when they were around.

One of the gifts of genealogy is that you feel you know your relatives, even those who died before your were born.  By the very nature of sleuthing out a new generation, testing the dates to see if they fit, finding corroborating facts to confirm their identify, pondering the reasons for their move across the country or immigration from another one, noting the births and deaths of their young children; by the time you've done all that you feel you almost 'know' the person.  Being the greedy possessive body that I am, I felt I owned them.

I'm not upset that my Dad was adopted so much as I'm upset that I only found out when I was 54 years old and he's been dead for 23 years.  His parents have been gone for 37 years.  I can't ask anyone anything.  They are so tangibly alive in my memories it sometimes catches me by surprise  that they aren't available to tell them things or to check with them.  I asked my closest living relative, my Uncle Pat, who also happens to have been adopted by my maternal Grandmother, and he was skeptical, having been around Mom and Dad so much and them never saying anything at some obvious moments.  I wrote to my Dad's paternal cousins in Minneapolis to ask if they could please check the records in the historical society, in case this woman made it all up - there was no identifying information with the portion of the listing she sent.  It seems unlikely to have been a hoax, but a careful research always checks the facts.  They might also be able tell me how to apply to a District Court Judge to get the records opened nine years early.

It dawned on me a while later that I had another contact, a maternal cousin of my Dad, who always said my Grandma was his favourite aunt.  I know him only through the genealogy research, something he's lost interest in; he doesn't always reply to emails I've sent trying to know him better, but he answered this time.  Ah, he wrote back, we always pretty much knew your Dad was adopted.  Didn't realise you didn't know.

Pat and I both have sifted through memories, searching for clues.  Best as we can tell, my Dad didn't know.  My Dad was quiet, introspective and somewhat introverted, but he was not secretive.  A few times the things he shared with me in the interest of honesty and education were almost 'too much information' from my perspective.  I'm pretty certain that had my Dad known he was adopted he would have told me.  Pat was kind enough to re-assure me that I am in fact the child of my parents (well, my Mom's anyhow); he was around at the time and can to attest to the fact.  It seems silly now, but I can tell you that when one big certainty tumbles, the dominoes around it teeter.

Poor Bill.  He's going through this major life change called 'retirement' and we are doing the usual dance of negotiation that couples unused to sharing the same space ALL day EVERY day go through.  I love my solitude and whilst I'm not specifically a couch potato Bill sometimes comes into the East wing to dust the cobwebs that have formed between me and the computer.  I don't know how to act when he comes up and stands around.  My mind generally is buried in the intricacies of devising and populating some silly financial spreadsheet, composing a post or writing a 'Race Director' email.  He comes in for a bit of companionship and gets my 'What can I do for you' response.  We've finally learned to stop and have a coffee break together.  Bill's going through a major change in his life and here I am weeping around the house as though there's been a death in my family and there hasn't.  I'm not sleeping well and frequently give up in the wee hours to commune with the computer instead of practicing patience awaiting sleep.  Some mornings I have a debate with myself about why I should get out of bed at all.  Bill thinks I'm showing signs of depression.  Well, he's a mental health nurse, he would say that. 

I've been weighing up what exactly is the loss I've been grieving:  maybe my German heritage, though the birth name Broun sounds pretty German to me.  My Grandparents are still mine, though, dammit.  Their way of life made a big impression on me and I aspire to move more in the direction of their thrift, industry and simplicity (maybe that's harder than I realised because it's not genetic, hmmm?).  This has caused me not only to question what I know or just think I know.  It's also caused me to perceive Grandma and Grandpa differently.  When Grandmother adopted four children from Catholic Charities it was in the 1940s.  Daddy's adoption was in 1920, from the Owatonna Public School.  A lot of the laws and social customs changed between those dates.  Whilst part of me thinks it's a shame that Grandma and Grandpa were less than honest, they deserve full credit that no one could ever have questioned their love and commitment to my Dad, even when he disappointed and frustrated them.  I have no question at all that they loved me, too, so whilst I'm sad they kept a secret, they did everything else impeccably.  

Grandma always struggled with the fact that she was four years older than her husband, she either didn't know or didn't want to tell that her father was born in Germany, not Indiana; having experienced the disappointment of infertility myself, I can sort of understand why she would want to block that out and pretend a child was hers by birth.  A couple of Grandpa's brothers also adopted children, but it was never made secret in those families.  Secrecy must have been a strange and difficult choice to make.  They'll have had their reasons; it doesn't matter if I agree with them.

I have no idea what Camille, the woman who presented me with this unwelcome information, was thinking.  I've not written to her yet, though I do want to suggest to her that blundering around in the adoption records and passing around information that is none of her business is perhaps a bad idea.  I'm angry with her.  I'd like to rip away some of her comfortable certainties and see how she likes it.  So, I'm not ready to say anything yet.

All my life I've wondered about glaucoma,  Alzheimer's and stroke, some of the genetic gifts I might or might not receive from Grandma.  One of my Dad's biggest fears was senility and dependency, another reason I'm certain he never knew.  I've no idea what I should concern myself with now, but that's no different to a lot of people, so no matter.

I had a great night's sleep last night:  I finally remembered the melatonin I brought back from the States ages ago (it's not licensed here in the UK; valerian works pretty well too, though).  I found an interesting website today, about the history of adoption.  Minnesota apparently was at the forefront of some of the laws concerning confidentiality and the sealing of records, passing the first law in 1917.  Other states followed suit between the two world wars.  In 1939, a book called The Chosen Baby was published and was a major influence in the practice of telling children they were adopted. So, I've found something else to be interested in, something else that might tell me about how things were in the 1920s, my era of fascination, only relating to something other than fashion and famous people.

I've sort of gone off genealogy for the moment.  All those hours in the library collecting information from the Catholic records in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries in Wiskirchen, Germany, wasted.  I can claim my Grandparents and perhaps their parents who influenced them, but at some point those other people don't seem particularly relevent anymore, except as incidental historical fodder.  I don't 'own' the blacksmith who came from Germany and I'm no longer related to the man who invented insulin (according to Ancestry.com).  That woman didn't just steal my certainty, she chopped off half my family tree.  Which at least gives me a use for the quotation I picked up the other day from Maya Angelou's book, Even the Stars Look Lonesome.  (If you've not read any of her books, I recommend starting at the beginning of her autobiographical works, with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

The quote is an old African saying:

The ax forgets.  The tree remembers.

And of course there's my old stand-by: 

This, too, shall pass.

Stormy Sea and Foolish Fishers

It was one of the first nights after Jane and Chris arrived that we had a terrific storm during the night.  We sleep with the window cracked as a rule, but had to shut it for fear that the drapes were going to be blasted off the railings.

 

The next day things were calmer on land, but the sea was still quite dramatic and we always enjoy watching the waves crash over the North Pier.  

 

There were loads of seagull out dashing about and the waves inside the pier on the river were also impressive.  

 

The next day would find some mad surfers on those waves, at risk of having their brains smashed on the Black Middens, where many a ship met its fate in years past.

Bill noticed the rough ride being given this ship, likely taking newly built Nissan cars to Europe.  

 

He figured there would be a few dents from this journey. 

As we walked towards the Abbey and the Castle, 

 

which you may recognize from last winter (if I ever find those photos, I'll link them), we spotted some determined fishers climbing over the barrier - shut because of danger - to gain access to the ledge inside the pier.  

 

I can't think of a catch that could possibly be worth that risk, and there are quite a few rescue missions 

 

by the RNLI each year to save idiots like this.

Sorbonne and Cigarettes

[Warning:  this post drifts anywhere and everywhere.  Just so you know.]

I've just been over at the Daily Connoisseur (had to go check how to spell that).  She lived for a while in France and is writing about that experience.  I had a work colleague in Utah who also lived in Paris, where she studied medicine at the Sorbonne.  Of course D spoke fluent French, which was demonstrated one afternoon when a handsome young black man came to visit the office from Atlanta.  He, too, had spent time in France and as the two chattered away in French, both clearly enjoying the practice, the whole office stood around and watched, mesmerised.  We actually applauded them afterwards.  Clearly, we didn't get out and about much. 

D was perhaps only a couple of years older than I, but her style was completely different.  Being from Oklahoma, my style was more along Texan lines; it is widely recognised that Texas Women Try Harder.  D wore flat shoes with classic skirts, blouses and jackets in quite serious menswear type fabrics.  Her jacket and skirt were often colour coordinated but not a matched suit, something men also do.  She rarely wore make up, particularly not eye make-up, and her shoulder length hairstyle was neat but natural looking.  She was thin, with lovely translucent skin that made her ultra-feminine in spite of her serious clothes.  She was never one to confide very much about herself, but she was still quite open and approachable.  She was great company and huge fun.  I shall always be grateful to her for introducing me to the music of Bonnie Raitt.  I, in turn, introduced her to the joys of  shopping at thrift stores.  

D often spoke about her experience of being an au pair, living in the attic, getting Madame's permission to take a weekly bath in the family bathroom, about the strict rules of the house, washing her clothes by hand, etc.  She never seemed to see it as a hardship, though it must have been challenging.  She was clearly enriched by her experience of living in a different culture.  I hope to enjoy D's company again sometime when we live in Salt Lake City.  The Daily Conneisseur always makes me think of D.

In this post, her point about the rude way in which people use their mobile phones also hit home.  (Don't even get me started on personal music players.  Suffice it to say the railways instituted a quiet car for those of us who wish to keep their remaining sanity.)  I've lost count of the number of times I've had to step out of the way of some one so engrossed in their text message or phone conversation that they were about to walk straight into me.  If they can't walk and talk at the same time, why would anyone believe they could safely drive?   The lost peace and quiet of libraries, changing rooms and even toilets (does the person on the other end really want to hear the toilet sounds?) sometimes makes me wish for the good old days of phone booths.   I always feel sorry for the girl or boy whose partner is busy talking on the phone as they walk down the street, supposedly together but obviously are not.  

People have actually begun to look rather strange to me, walking around with their hand stuck to their head, elbow waving.  They make me think of the adverts Brooke Shields did years ago as part of an anti-smoking campaign. 

 

I don't believe any of the health scare stories about mobile phones causing brain cancer or anything, but there are sufficient social ills I sometimes wonder if an anti-mobile campaign wouldn't be in order.

Some Feedback

I'll warn you the rest of this is a rant, so you may want to stop here. I see I need to capture some more pictures to illustrate my complaints, so will add those later!

I thought there was huge room for improvement in the way this business operated. For one thing, the foreman wasn't there more than 5-10 minutes morning and afternoon, just droppping off and picking up crew. I had issues with the brick layer, who was seemingly in charge otherwise. I wasn't very impressed with most of his work.

I didn't have a drawing or anything in writing detailing what Bill had agreed with the boss who bid the job. In spite of this, the guys were asking me what they were supposed to be doing. I managed spend another £250 of Bill's money with just the wave of an arm and 'I think all that goes.' Bill wasn't unhappy with the result, but it frightened me to have made an expensive change so unintentionally.

The brick layer seemed to be thinking that half the concrete slabs were supposed to remain, which was completely daft. He had a drawing on which he relied, but it was wrong. Bill came home early that afternoon to help sort it; he found the measurements on the sketch that showed what was actually supposed to happen.


This company does decent brick paving, but I think they trashed my brick walls. One morning the brick layer pointed out a problem with the front wall in that the old brickwork on one side of the gate wasn't level with the other; he was going to have a problem making the brick wall level at the top enough to put the capstone back on. I'd made it clear from the start that I liked my old, coal smoke stained capstones. He was saying that to do a half-course of brick would add a couple hundred more to the cost of the job. He told me this first thing one morning. My initial response was "Why are you asking me? You are supposed to be the professional here!! What the hell do you mean it will cost more?!! Don't you think you should have spotted that problem before you ripped out half the wall, not after?!!" I remember opening and closing my mouth several times, and finally came out with "I haven't really had enough coffee yet to have any ideas here. I'll phone Bill and see what he wants to do." Bill, fortunately, was up to the challenge. He proposed leaving the post in place, which would alleviate the problem of matching the brickwork on the other side. So we have a gate with a post on either side, like before, plus another extraneous post with a matching capstone (which cost extra). It looks a bit strange, but it's not a big deal. The brickwork and the capstone look a bit wonky to me, but I don't look at it much.


The house is on hill and this slope was a apparently problem for them. They decided to put a big step in to make the back and front join up; big as in the long side of a brick. When Bill did his usual evening perusal, he asked me to see if they could sink the bricks about half way to lower the step and he suggested a place where they could make a second step if needed. I explained this to the brick layer but it didn't happen; they lowered it a bit, but not much. It did seem to me that if Bill stayed to talk with them in the morning or came home early to talk in the evening, things worked out. If I relayed the information, it got ignored.

The worst casualty, I think, was the brick wall at the back. They took it down carefully and re-used as many of the bricks as they could. Unfortunately, the brick layer didn't have the skills to maintain the slope of the wall and it looks strange. When I complained that it didn't look right, the brick layer and the foreman both told me it couldn't have been done any better because the bricks were old, etc., etc. When Bill got home the first thing he did was to put a level on it. As I understand it, the first and last principle of brick laying is that the bubble needs to be in the middle; this is not the case. I try not to look at that very much either; I'm thinking about growing some ivy over that section.

Bill paid the first half of the bill at the end of the first week, in cash. He made out a receipt for himself and had the foreman sign it; otherwise, I doubt he would have got one. Bill then expected to receive an invoice at the end of the job and to send a check for the balance, as with every other builder with whom we've done business. Turned out they wanted the balance immediately, like 5 minutes after they finished at 3pm on a Friday. The check was to be made out to their supplier so they could take it there on the way home. I wrote a slightly warm check that Bill covered via electronic transfer. Then I got a call from their office saying they were still short £50 and would I write another check. I did, but it was just another thing on the list about which I wasn't very impressed.

I took the foreman around, since he was there, and gave him my opinion about the work, ie all of the above. Had I been paying for this job, I think I would have been way pushier and I certainly would have had something in writing to fall back on. However, the boss who bids the jobs spends 6-7 weeks at a time 'off-shore', which usually refers to work on an oil rig in the North Sea. Given that I don't normally associate brick paving and oil rigs I don't know what to think, particularly as his children go to school with one of our neighbour's children.

I rang his office today, as suggested by his secretary, to schedule an appointment with him. I want him to see the work his crew did and to see if he will put the brick walls right. Turns out he's only in the country for tomorrow and the weekend (he doesn't work weekends). She was only in the office for another 30 minutes; the office is closed until further notice, possibly even through Christmas, because there are no jobs. I don't know what to think about that. If he's not in the country he can't bid jobs; if he's not going to bid jobs, why put up a sign to advertise? I'll chase his office for a while longer -- a phone call a month isn't very hard. If worst comes to worse, I can always send him a letter with photos -- or a link to this post even.

Still, I thought I'd share all the excitement, not least the eye candy. (I'm referring to the brick paving, of course.) And there will be more to come next week!