Boston Bound

During Christmas-time 2008, the extended "H" family gathered in New England. BlogMama, Hubster and TeenE boarded a plane at Heathrow (see previous entry). Son revved up the 1998 Chevy Venture minivan formerly owned by his mother, and sped northward from the Carolinas. After a brief stop in Belmont at the home of Dr. Erica, we all rendezvoused in Manchester, NH, at the home of my in-laws Nana and Granddad, in Hubster’s childhood home.

We were preceded by a gigantic ice storm, the likes of which New Hampshire had never seen before. Nana and Granddad themselves had had to evacuate to a hotel as they had neither heat nor hot water in the sub-freezing weather. I have subsequently heard reports that other people were without power for up to eleven days. Crews worked around the clock to restore power throughout the region. By the time we arrived, power had been restored and N and G were back in residence.

We awoke in the am to find that Santa had left a few things under the tree. He imported a few things from London, in the form of a magenta lambswool scarf-boa (me), a magenta cashmere vest (me), Roman roof tiles (Hubster, Son and Granddad), a hand-knit red beaded shawl (Nana), London, The Biography (Granddad) and a Beatles wallet (son). TeenE also received her requested Ugg-type boots and Son his requested electronic pre-amp for his bass guitar (cuts down on feedback, I’m told).

The plan for Christmas luncheon was for Hubster’s sister and her husband, aka NH-Sis and NH-Bro-i-L t, along with their girls cuzzins Nejjy and Sejjy, to host the clan at their spacious residence in nearby Bedford, NH. Other Brother UncaTom and his wife AuntTom were also to attend, along with NH-BroiL’s mother, bringing the total to thirteen. Before noon we piled into two vehicles and set out for Bedford, but not before Nana stayed behind with the dryer while it finished Son’s load of laundry. (See posting from Sept. to determine why she will not leave the house with dryer running).

As we entered the family room at the NH-Sis and NH-Broil’s lovely colonial home, we felt the warmth of a fire in the fireplace. As we removed our boots, we glanced into the open door of the attached garage, and were surprised to see two banquet tables all laid out with Christmas place-settings and wineglasses. The crowd of thirteen had been deemed too large to fit in the dining room, and with the youngest among us now 14, a “kid’s table” in the adjacent living room was deemed unseemly.
Please bear in mind that this is the cleanest garage you will ever see. Not a speck of dust or dirt was evident. It was as if NH-BroiL had sterilized it somehow. Beige area rugs covered the floor, the walls were a pristine white, not a shred of anything cluttered the walls. The only other furnishings were a folding table serving as a wine bar, and a seating area for two over in one corner. Two space heaters with fans kept us at room, or should I say, garage temperature.
After enjoying festive drinks and hors d-oevres in the living room, we lined up in the kitchen to fill our plates with roast crown of pork, potatoes, gravy, homemade applesauce, green beans, etc., and then repaired to the garage, er, banquet hall, to enjoy the feast. A dessert of pecan pie or pumpkin chiffon pie (or a sliver of each) topped off the meal. It almost took a forklift to get everyone back into the main house afterwards.

I was joined at the sink by NH-BroiL’s mother, who wiped as I washed. We put away the leftovers, loaded the dishwasher, and washed everything that didn’t fit . After that, still jet-lagged, we were ready to go back to our various beds/sofas at Nana and Granddad’s.

I hope that Christmas in the Garage continues as an “H” family tradition. It certainly made this year memorable!
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Sick Again (another Led Zep title for the uninitiated)

Hubster had been sick with the "Hucghhhhhk" (so named by comedian Billy Crystal), which is what we call the sore throat and cough virus that has been making the rounds here. He even stayed home from work for a whole day, which is almost unheard of. I warned TeenE that she had better get a flu shot well before the production week of the play, which she did. We found out a week later that the particlar germ involved in producing the "Hucghhhhhhk" was NOT, in fact, covered by this year's influenza vaccine, or last year's, even. On that Friday, there was no school due to a teacher's conference day. I went for my second-ever shift as a volunteer at the local hospice. When I left the flat at 10:30 am she had not yet been seen. When I arrived home at 1:45 pm there was no sign of life, so I knocked on her door. No answer, or was that a faint moan? I peeked in, and all I could see was a lump under the duvet. Dr. Mom was in the house. I brought tea. She had already taken Ibuprofen.

Sadly, the timing of the arrival of the "Hucghhhhhk" coincided with some important social plans TeenE had made. These plans had to be cancelled. She rallied miraculously on Saturday, however, just in time to sing at the concert the school was giving for area OAP's (Old Age Pensioners). Her miraculous healing also allowed her to attend a birthday party. I walked her and her friend TeenH up Finchley road about 1/4 mile in the pouring rain. "Do you HAVE to come? We know the way!" was the hue and cry that night. Yes, I did, I insisted. My job was to make sure that there was an adult home. I was assuaged when the Dad opened the door, and I made my way back to the flat in an extremely soggy condition.

On Sunday I was sorry. I now had the "Hucghhhhhk", despite having gone for my own flu shot the previous Wednesday. I slept until 2 pm. I realized that I was not going to be able to attend TeenE's choral concert that her school was presenting as a benefit for the soup kitchen affiliated with the American Church in London. And TeenE had a solo, too. I spent a very, very sorry afternoon and evening on the sofa, too tired to blog or even knit. Hubster reported that the concert was wonderful and that TeenE did a marvelous job with her solo. They were driven home by MomT from across the street. I think their trip was something like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. "Red Light!" Hubster is reported to have shouted at least once. I saw MomT a few days later and she asked if Hubster had told me about their ride home.

I was up and about again by Tuesday, rallying just in time for the festive Christmas Luncheon at the Landmark Hotel with 100 other members of the St. John's Wood Women's Club. The Landmark is a Victorian-era behemoth with high, conservatory-style glass ceiling in the heart of the Paddington neighborhood. The champagne reception started at 11:30, followed by a three-course lunch with wine. That crew sure likes to eat and drink. As long as they keep offering the walks, we'll be OK. I am happy to report that more than one scale (which may or may not be in need of recalibration) shows a net weight loss of ONE whole kilogram, (equal to 2.2 lbs.), several pairs of trousers no longer need to be unfastened to effect their removal. Hips and thighs have given way to massive quads and toned calves, or so I like to think. Perhaps some shopping will be in my future when we are in the US for Christmas. Door prizes were given at the lunch, and my name was called. I had to choose from two wrapped packages on my table. One was shaped exactly like a gift box for a bottle of wine, while the other was smaller and flatter. I went for the smaller one, hoping for chocolates. Instead, I was delighted to find a small hand-bound leather notebook, just the right size for jotting down blog-related notes. A perfect note on which to end a delightful afternoon. I tottered up the road and got onto the bus, arriving at A Flat on Abbey Road in under fifteen minutes.

A Muddy Heath Hike

The early December day dawned clear when the first light broke around 8 am. I got up early to seize the day, and to join some of the dedicated walking women of the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club. Our goal was to hike around the open heathland in the north of London known as Hampstead Heath for a few hours and then repair to a pub for lunch.

We were advised to wear sturdy walking shoes, and to bring plastic bags to put over our shoes when we entered the pub in the event of muddy conditions on the heath. It had not rained for a several days so I was confident that the going would be smooth. The morning mist had risen by the time I made my way down in the clankity antique gated elevator and hit Abbey Road running. I had taken a little too much time adjusting the insoles of the walking shoes and knew I’d have to run for the number 46 bus that would take me ten minutes up the road to Hampstead. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner onto Circus Road (my new favorite “back” way to the “Hi” Street) I could see a #46 bus charging across the intersection towards the nearest stop. I put on a burst of speed, ran to the stop, and flagged down the bus as I ran. The correct way of flagging down a bus is to wave one’s little plastic card-holder that holds the electronic bus pass. I must have been quite a sight flapping down the pavement. This was the last possible bus I could catch in order to make the rendezvous point in time.

I looked around and didn’t see any other riders that might fit the description of over-forty American walker. At the next stop, however, three chatty American moms boarded and I gave them a little wave. Phew! The group waiting up at the Hampstead Underground stop would certainly have to wait for the four of us.

There was a group of women standing outside of the Underground entrance. In fact, they were thoroughly blocking the entrance AND preventing passers-by from using the sidewalk (pavement). This is a well-known American thing to do (see previous post on London City Garden tour), so I knew I was in the right place. The parade marshall ticked off our names on her list as we waited for two women across the street to get the green light so they could cross. It was the other woman with the same surname as me, and her 70-ish mother, visiting from the Boston area. One of the ladies activated her GPS so we could track mileage, and we were herded around the corner onto Flask Walk. After a brief orientation to that corner of Hampstead, off we went at a brisk pace toward one of the paths that lead into the Heath.

Family members, especially TeenE and Hubster, know that I like to walk fast. They are always asking me to slow down, and saying things like “Why do you have to walk so fast?!” Answer: Because that’s the way I walk. I blame this on having grown up in the greater New York City area, where if you don’t walk aggressively fast you will never make it through the crowds. This crowd of middle-aged women, however, went markedly faster than my usual pace. I would have been consistently left in their dust had there been any dry soil in evidence. Despite the dry weather, there were patches of mud that ranged from slightly damp to boggy muck and on to a veritable quagmire. The leather walking shoes were taking a beating. I should have worn the new boots. Oh Wellies.

We crossed and re-crossed every possible path on the Heath. Starting at Downshire Hill, we went northeast to the Vale of Heath and the swans on the pond there, back toward the center, over to the northeast again, crossed Spaniard’s road, made our way through Sandy Heath. This is a lovely wood filled with chestnut and beech trees. The wet copper-gilt leaves carpeted the undulating terrain. Steep mounds of sand left by a melting glacier eons ago are now populated with mature trees in what could be a faerie wood. Yet on we marched, driven on by our relentless leader, who seemed bent on showing us every possible pub at every possible corner of the Heath. From Sandy Heath we crossed onto the East Heath Extension and then across North End Road. I realized that I was literally around the corner from my old 1978 address at 849 Finchley Road. We paused to look at a beautiful small building that used to be a school, then back into the Heath via Hogarth Way, or Drive, or House. Every house on that street claims to have been lived in by the artist Hogarth. I’m pretty sure we retraced our steps back through Sandy Heath, then we were off past another historic building INSIDE the Heath borders, and over to The Pergola, a huge trellised garden with autumn plants of every description still in bloom despite the mid-December date. Our pace was such that if one stopped to take even one photo you would become hopelessly left behind.

The old Girl Scout hiking adage “Slowpokes in the front” as voiced ad nauseum by older sister NYSis was to no avail. They were pressing on so determinedly that the slowpokes never had a chance to GET to the front. And right up there with them was the other Mrs. H. and her Mother.

And we’re off again, this time to Kenwood House at the northern edge of the main Heath. This is a white Georgian-fronted building currently housing an art museum. Fans of “Notting Hill” may remember that Julia Robert’s character was being filmed in a costume drama in front of this very façade. Finally, we stopped so that many of the middle-aged women could use the loo. Not me. I was so parched from the pace we had been keeping that all I could think about was finding a bottle of water, but I didn’t want to get separated from the group, so I prayed that we would come in for a landing at our destination pub soon.

Our next leg was over to the Highgate side of the Heath. Coming down a hill we ran into a patch where the frost on the grass had frozen solid over four inches of rutted mud. It was a good thing that this area had not yet thawed. Soon we were where the “bathing ponds” are. At least they are identified as such on every map. I always assumed that the names of the ponds were an anachronism. My previous trips through the Heath, both in 1978 and 2006 had never revealed the pond’s real nature to me. Yes, they really are still used as “bathing” ponds. The Women’s Bathing Pond is reserved for women and children. There are other bathing ponds for men and for mixed doubles, I assume. They have changing rooms, loos, lifeguards, a diving board, etc. A sign informed us that due to the fact that there was ice on the surface of the women’s bathing pond, swimmers should use the mens’ or general facilities for today. A lifeguard came out of the office to chat with us. She said that there are some people who come for a dip every day of the year. The water temp was shown on the chalkboard to be 3 degrees centigrade. Ducks and geese floated around the far perimeter of the pond. In a tree nearby, a flock of green parakeets (just like the ones in the film The Wild Parakeets of Telegraph Hill, set in San Francisco, CA) raised a racket.

After a brief stop to inspect the diving platform, we were urged onward. This time the path took us up and over Parliament Hill, the highest spot in the greater London area, where city-dwellers have retreated in times of trouble, such as the Great London Fire of 1666. The whole expanse of the London skyline lays to the south. Scenes in “Notes on a Scandal” with Judy Dench and Kate Winslet chatting on a bench were filmed here. On we pressed, finally crossing through a hundred yards of wet, gloppy mud. Some of us had repeated scuffed through wet grass to remove the mud which had accumulated on our shoes. All of this effort was for naught as we schlepped through that last morass of moistness. Even the caked on mud got a good coating. Fortunately, no one slipped, as we had slowed our pace considerably.

We FINALLY came to a halt at the side of a busy road. The civilization was once more in sight, although we had never been further than a mile or so from it at any time on our “walk”. It was precisely 12:30, our target arrival time for lunch. We had walked 7 miles, including several stops. Those who were going to lunch repaired to The FreeMason’s Arms, where we quaffed pint of tapwater in preparation for the beers we were about to imbibe. We had preordered the food, which arrived soon. Once I caught my breath and the kidneys were working again, I enjoyed country pate on toast with cornichon pickles, followed by gnocchi with a pumpkin cream sauce, and finally a decadent chocolate gooey something that I absolutely could not finish. All this was consumed in the company of my 12 newest best friends. The talk was the usual chit-chat; kids, flats, neighbors (one lady lives next door to a man who has a screamer for a girlfriend, she has trouble explaining that to her kids: “Mommy, what is that noise? Why is she making that noise?”) They spent a reported 15,000 pounds soundproofing the common wall. Then, kids again, kids' illnesses, and discussions of the health care system and providers in general. Two women told me how wonderful their doctor is. “Let me guess!” I said.

I finally pried myself out of there at about half past two, and took the #46 bus back to A Flat on Abbey Road. My plan was to rest up for the next outing that evening, which shall be described separately.

The Play's the Thing

TeenE has been spending most of her time in rehearsals for the American School in London’s high school theatre production. This year they are putting on “And Then They Came For Me: Remembering the Life of Anne Frank”. She is among the “company”, meaning she has a background part. We have had to purchase “character shoes”, fortunately on sale at Capezio in Soho, and a beige leotard. More on that later…

The play was written with the support of the Anne Frank foundation. Two Holocaust survivors who knew Anne were interviewed for the production. These interviews were presented as part of the production, projected on a backdrop. One of the survivors now lives in St. John’s Wood, London, and was involved heavily in this production. Eva Geiringer Schloss came to talk to the cast, giving background information for the actors’ portrayals of the main characters. After each performance, she took questions from the audience. As the director noted, our children’s generation will be the last to hear witness from those who lived through the Holocaust.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but knew that the production would be emotionally challenging. I was right. I had purchased tickets for two of the performances, but was only able to sit through one. It was an extremely powerful presentation of how the lives of innocents were subsumed and annihilated by the evil of hatred. The play made clear the escalation of injustice and the scale of the atrocities inflicted on the Jews, gypsies, mentally ill, homosexuals, on a very personal level. Anne Franks’ friends Eva, whom we met, and Ed both had their families broken apart and spent time at Auschwitz. Eva was taken on her fifteenth birthday. This was made especially poignant as many of the cast members were that age. After the liberation of the camps, Eva was reunited with her mother, and with Anne Frank’s father Otto, who later became her stepfather. Eva, now 80, has, through the vehicle of this play, encouraged us to speak out against those who hate.

The most challenging scene in the play for me to watch was when the cast members, after being taken to Auschwitz by cattlecar, were led behind a backlit screen and made to strip by the Nazis. Only their silhouetted shadows could be seen as they stripped down to their beige leotards; it gave a very real illusion, and I could certainly recognize TeenE’s shape in the center of the screen. Later these same screens had images of the burning chimneys of the crematorium and the associated sounds of the ovens. I wound up huddled in a little ball in my seat, as if closing off my energy field could possibly protect me from the grief and horror of what was being depicted on stage. There was a horrified hush among the capacity crowd, and sounds of sniffles and sobs began.

At the end of the play, the playwright somehow brought us to the present, with Eva and Ed being shown on the screens as they neared age 80, and we felt hopeful for humanity again. But the fact that Anne Frank herself never left Auschwitz alive, never married, never had children or grandchildren, was made very clear.

Several cast members and their families are also cared for by the good Dr. D., so we invited him to the production as our guest. I was glad to have the additional moral support on Opening Night. Hubster had a “conference” with the guys after work so was unable to attend until Saturday night. After having witnessed this powerfully moving production, the parents and community were all impressed at the high quality of the production; it was not at all like the student production we were expecting. Kudos to the theatre department at ASL, especially Mr. Buck Heron, for putting on this important and moving production.

If you wish to find out more about the US-based organization Teaching Tolerance, which fights hate crimes and publishes a Teaching Tolerance curriculum for schools, visit http://www.tolerance.org/
Through them, I was able to support the Holocaust Memorial Museum when it was being built, and to dedicate a plaque in honor of my father, who along with hundreds of others in the army, was on hand to witness the liberation of one of the concentration camps.

Blessings to those who help us remember, and whose witnessing is a light shining in the darkness. Blessings also to those, who through their artistic talents, bring the message to the world.

Thanksgiving in London/TeenE sings at St. Paul's Cathedral

Thanksgiving: it is not just a verb about being in a grateful state of mind. To Americans, the word “Thanksgiving” conjures up thoughts of home, of time spent with family, of a “traditional” menu, and of course, of watching game after game of football.

Our first Thanksgiving in London had many traditional American elements, but was also endowed with a British accent. The three of us went to church, feasted on a traditional turkey dinner, watched TV, and took a walk. This description hardly does justice, however, to the Old World setting in which this all took place.

The grocery shopping for the Thanksgiving feast took a completely different form. In our hometown of Belmont, Massachusetts, the shopping would have started the week before the cooking got started. A large turkey would have been obtained. If frozen, it would be defrosted in the refrigerator starting on the Sunday before the holiday. A 14 to 20 pound bird takes at least three days to defrost. Wine would be obtained from the liquor store. Several trips to the supermarket would ensure that all the required elements were on hand. Undoubtedly, Hubster would make at least one last-minute run for whatever we had forgotten. All of this running around would be conducted in the ten-year-old red minivan. We would start cooking the night before. Wine would be chilled. The house would be cleaned for company. Pumpkin pies would be baked, if there would be room to store them overnight in the fridge. Perhaps the mashed potatoes or the sweet potato casserole would be prepared in advance. Even the “traditional” green bean casserole (made with cream-of-mushroom soup and festooned with crispy onion rings—did they Pilgrims have that on their menu?) could be prepared ahead. A last minute check would be made on the “cranberry sauce situation”. Some years we would have two kinds, both the jelly version that comes out in the shape of the can, and a chunky version that I make myself. I will never forget our first Thanksgiving as a married couple in 1986, when we hosted the meal in our tiny “married student apartment” at Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH. Hubster’s parents his sister (NHsis) and his youngest brother Tom drove up from their NH home 70 miles away, while my brother Bill took the Amtrak “Montrealer” train from NYC to White River Junction. That particular year I made a homemade cranberry-orange sauce, and it was utterly rejected by Tom. I’ve never made that mistake again. I also made a chestnut-based stuffing/dressing that was NOT a hit. Ever since, I’ve made the traditional Bahlke family Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix with crumbled sweet Italian sausage. Since Son became a vegetarian in 2005, I’ve made some stuffing with the sausage, and some without.
The family Thanksgiving also includes an appearance of the china and crystal we received as wedding gifts, one of the two or three times a year that our finery sees the light of day.
This year we had to reinvent Thanksgiving the “ex-pat” way. On Wednesday, I took the underground to High Street Kensington, to visit the Whole Foods grocery store. Yes, this is the same Whole Foods that is located in Cambridge, Mass, which Hubster likes to call “Whole Paycheck”. One can buy deliciously fresh, high quality produce, meats, cheese, grains, etc. for high quality prices. The food is delicious however, and the brand’s emphasis on wholesome freshness without additives or trans-fats makes it worth the extra coinage if one wants to play that game.

Whole Foods are no dummies, and cleverly arranged to be at the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club Member’s Marketplace in early November. That is where I picked up the brochure for a catered Thanksgiving dinner. Hubster and I were sure we didn’t want to spend the whole day in the kitchen cooking a turkey with all the traditional side dishes just to feed the three of us. The miniature size of our flat precludes inviting more than one or two other people, but we didn’t feel like entertaining anyway. Many of our American School friends had taken off for European or Middle Eastern destinations, so our favorite people weren’t even available to combine forces at some other house.

For “only” thirty-six pounds, we could get an already-prepared meal that we would just have to heat up. This is considerably less than we would have paid to eat out, even if we could have found a place that served a traditional roast turkey menu. (They seem to eat that on Christmas here). For our money, we received two already-cooked turkey breasts, cornbread stuffing, gravy, cranberry-orange relish, mashed potatoes, pureed butternut squash with nuts, green beans with shallots (not quite crispy onion rings, but…) and an apple crumble. This was advertised as meal “for two”. We figured it would feed the three of us easily, and we were not disappointed. There were enough leftovers for us to have them TWICE.

The meal had been ordered by telephone, but they were not taking credit card payments over the phone. One had to go to the store and pay for the order. Also, “free” delivery was only if the order was over 50 pounds, which ours was not. So while in the store I had to pad the order with additional items. Throwing a few things in the cart, including wine, brought the total to 72 pounds, about what it costs to feed the three of us for a week at Sainsbury’s.
I made my way back to the flat by underground, and the the food was delivered at 5 pm that night. Everything was cleverly allocated space in the tiny fridge.

We got up early (for a day off) on Thursday. TeenE was slated to sing at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Tgiving day service there. She had been attending many choir rehearsals with her friend TeenA across the street, whose parents offered to get them there by taxi. She had just had the sole of her foot operated on the day before (see previous posting) and couldn’t walk easily. So out the door she went at 7:45 am. Hubster and BlogMama followed at around 9 by underground. Once at St. Paul’s, the famous steps were cordoned off by security barriers. We went through a bag-check. The gentleman was very thorough. We entered the sanctuary through the huge revolving doors and made our way down the aisle after being greeted by vergers or some such C of E personages.

The mother of another one of TeenE’s friends, MomS, had saved us seats waaaay up front. The church has concentric rings of chairs right underneath the dome, and we found ourselves in the fourth row of those, so were almost underneath the geometric center of the dome, with a great view of the narthex, the pulpit, and the choir stalls. We chatted with MomS, whose husband was in Mumbai at the time of the bombings there the night before. Thankfully he was safe, but the thoughts of everyone in the church were on that situation. The three rows ahead of us were reserved for members of the American Embassy, so that helped to explain the high security out front. We learned that the security dogs had come through before the choir arrived, and that the only way to get into the church as a choir member was to show your music as your security pass.

While we were waiting for the service to begin, Hubster spotted his former boss, BossD, among the thousands milling around. We said hello, found his wife in the crowd, and did the traditional mwanh/mwanh two-cheek kissy thing. They are originally from Zimbabwe, and due to the political situation there can never go back. They currently reside in London, and BossD is still a colleague of Hubster’s.

Here is the order of worship for St. Paul’s Thanksgiving Day service-Nov 27, 2008
The service began with music played by the “sub-organist” at St. Paul’s. The Magnificat Primi Toni by Buxtehude, and Prelude and Fugue in A minor by J.S. Bach resonated through the magnificent cathedral. The Dean and Chapter left the Dean’s Aisle and proceeded to the Great West Doors of the cathedral, where they received the Ambassador of the United States of America and his wife Mrs. Robert H. Tuttle.

Then, College of Minor Canons, the visiting Clergy, and the College of Canons left the Dean’s Aisle and proceeded to the places in the Quire. We all stood as the Ambassador and Mrs. Tuttle were escorted by the Dean and Chapter to their places under the Dome. The color Guard, made up of Marines who were Iraq war veterans, (3 men and 1 woman) presented the colors at the Dome Altar while the congregation sang the hymn Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.
This was followed by the Bidding, given by the Dean, the Right Reverend Graeme Knowles, and the Lord’s Prayer. Then, the combined choirs of the American Church in London and the International Community Church in Surrey (home church for BossD and his wife.) sang the anthem, consisting of words from Psalm 69, 9, 12, music by Charles Villiers Stanford. The first lesson, Isaiah 12, 1-6, was read by the Reverend Canon Lucy Winkett, Precenter and Canon in Residence. The second hymn to be sung by the 3,000-plus congregation was We Gather Together to Ask the Lord’s Blessing, which has its roots in an old Dutch hymn. The second lesson was from Colossians 3, 12-17, read by Vivian Hunt, a congregant of the American Church in London.

There followed the Explanation of Need, and the Offering, which was designated to be given to the Camden and City Churches Cold Weather Shelter. Once again the combined choirs of the two American Churches sang an anthem, Come Holy Ghost, words by John Cosin (1594-1672), music by Thomas Attwood (1765-1838). Then came President Bush’s Proclamation, read by the Honorable Robert H. Tuttle. Afterwards, there were prayers of thanksgiving and intercession led by two women ministers and three students, one of whom attends the American School in London with TeenE. Another hymn, this time Now Thank We All Our God, a German hymn by Martin Rinkart (1586-1649) to the tune Nun Danket (J. Cruger, 1598-1662).

This brought us to the sermon, given by the Reverend Dr. Barry Gaeddert of the International Community Church. After this, the congregation was “invited” to stand and sing America the Beautiful (words by Katherine Lee Bates—illustrious president of my alma mater Wellesley College), music “Materna” by Samuel A. Ward., during which the colors were retired by the color guard. Finally, the Dean gave the blessing, the Dean and Chapter escorted the Ambassador of the United States of America and Mrs. Robert H. Tuttle to the Great West Doors, and the College of Minor Canons, the visiting Clergy, and the College of Canons returned to the Dean’s Aisle. The organ voluntary Incantation pour un jour saint (Jean Langlais, 1907-91) played them out.

Being Congregationalists who sprang from the spiritual roots of our Pilgrim forebears, all of the pomp and ceremony that made up the service was new to me. I wondered what the Pilgrims, who left England for the freedom to worship in their plain, unadorned and NON-Church of England way, would think of this service. It did, of course, contain all the “traditional” hymns that we’ve all sung since grade school (even singing many of them IN school, before it became non-PC to sing about God in school).

Of course, the church service was not complete without the comment by Hubster that all the gilt and glory should be sold off and the proceeds donated to the poor. Cathedrals leave him cold.
We had some difficulty meeting up with TeenE afterward, as she was whisked down to the crypt and exited out a side door, while we were left milling around near the altar trying to get a message to her.As we were waiting outside on the West Front steps, our neighbors MomT and DadT were still inside, and were accosted for an interview by a reporter for the NYTimes, doing an article on how the changing economy was affecting Americans in London. See link for the article:

The best part of the whole gorgeous, ineffable experience was knowing that our beautiful TeenE’s voice was among those soaring to the great vault and inspiring us all to attain communion with something higher and better than ourselves, no matter what the state of our beliefs. Only the day before she had been in the hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth sitting next to a photo of St. Paul's having her foot operated on by the good Dr. D., and the next she was part of the service within the great cathedral. We are grateful for all our blessings, no matter how far from our family and friends we may be.

We eat, drink, and see that musician guy

December 8th, 2008

It was twenty-eight years ago today that I had a call from my High School buddy Jason at around 10 pm. He told me that John Lennon had been shot and killed in New York City. I refused to believe it, saying "That's not funny". He finally convinced me that it was true. We talked and cried a bit and then I hung up and turned on the radio. The DJ on WZLX was crying, and asking people to call in requests. I called and got through right away, and requested George Harrison's "Isn't it a Pity". This made the DJ cry again.

It was so sad. I wore black to work for two weeks straight.

I was reminded of this as I passed the wrought iron fence in front of the Abbey Road Studios today on my way home from a long day out. There were two bunches of flowers, and a note of remembrance. I wondered what, if anything, Sir Paul might be doing today as he remembered his friend and colleague.

Hubster and I had formulated a plan to go up to a pub called the Clifton, on Clifton Hill in St. John's Wood, about seven streets north on Abbey Road. We enjoyed our two-for-the-price-of-one steaks and a glass of Erdinger white beer and headed out into the night.

As we walked along, Hubster announced "I want to cross the street, and so I shall". I dutifully followed him. After about ten seconds of walking, a man approached us out of the darkness. I had a quick look, and it was Sir Paul. He saw me looking his way, and looked out toward the street. That was my sign to look down as we passed and completely ignore him. I decided that he must have mastered the art of avoidance long ago, almost like the Jedi mind trick. "There is nothing to interest you here".

Hubster walked on in oblivion. I waited a good twenty seconds before I said "did you see who that was?" He didn't believe me, and still thinks I am making it up. I am reliably informed, however that Sir Paul's daughter lives on that street, and that he is often seen in the Clifton. Perhaps he was going there to lift a pint in memory of John. I hope so.

Trampled Underfoot (title of Led Zeppelin tune)

Oops. A few weeks ago I was awakened by the sound of glass breaking. I thought it was coming from the kitchen, and also thought I heard the sounds of someone throwing away large shards of glass. I rolled over and went back to sleep. This was the first mistake.

Later that morning, TeenE came to show me that her toe was bleeding. She mentioned that she had stepped on some broken glass In Her Room. That was my first clue that it hadn't been an accident in the kitchen. The radiator covers in each room are topped with granite slabs, so the glass of water she keeps at her bedside had somehow run afoul of the stone. The general slovenly state of her bedroom floor meant that she couldn't see all the tiny slivers that were now embedded in the berber-style carpet.

I told her to wash her foot, stick a bandage on her toe, and be on her way to school. I went into her room, removed the piles of clothes from the floor with a backhoe, and Hoovered the heck out of her rug.

Cut to two weeks later. She comes to tell me that her foot hurts. This time it is the ball of the foot, not the toe, and it looks slightly puffy and tender to the touch. She tells me that she "thinks" that during the intial incident, she "may" have had a second cut in that exact spot, but that she couldn't find anything there at the time.

It is now the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and I have visions of waiting in a hospital ER for hours while we are supposed to be in church or dining on turkey. Also, TeenE is supposed to sing in a choir for a special T-giving service (more on that later) and really shouldn't miss the last rehearsal on Wed. night.

Fortunately, during a bus trip to Blenheim Palace a week before, I sat with MomT. I remembered that I had recommended our fabulous Dr. D. to her a few months back. I enquired if she had followed up on that. Yes, she had, and was happy to report that the ubiquitous Dr. D. had done some minor surgery on her toe and was absolutely brilliant at both that, and in giving a painless flu shot. Aha!! Through the wonders of the internet, I was in touch with him within a few hours. He said it didn't sound too bad and that it might be able to wait. Phew.

The next day there was no school at ASL. By the time TeenE got up late and then showed me her foot, it was mid-day. The affected part was a little tender to the touch, but it looked fine. My intuition said "make the call", however, so a quick call to the secretary had us booked in for later that afternoon.

TeenE was scared and quite freaked out when Dr. D. said he might need to make a small incision in her foot and "poke around" (I believe that's the medical term he used) to find any "spicules" of glass. Now there's a word I've never heard before. He gloved up and wielded the local anesthetic. Within a few moments he declared that she had an abcess, and spent quite some time exploring. I was asked to assist, by opening a drawer and finding the right kind of swab, then opening the package and handing the swab to the gloved-up professional.

One stitch later (which really freaked her out, too) and she was ready to go. She couldn't get out of there fast enough. Of course I left the good doctor with a plate of pumpkin-nut "bikkies", short for biscuits, which are cookies.

I'm off now to retreive TeenE from school to go back and get her stitch taken out, as well as receive a "painless" flu jab.