Our niece "C" arrived early on a Thursday morning a week ago. Her flight was on time and she had an easy time at Terminal 5. She called at 6:15 am to say that she was on the Heathrow to Paddington Express.
I had promised to meet her there, so I had slept in my clothes in order to get out the door more quickly. I ran out of the flat and over to Hall Road to get the 187 bus that goes right to Paddington. As I approached the corner, I saw a #46 running along the route, so was heartened that the bus was running. Then I waited about 5 minutes for a 187. A taxi went past and looked at me enquiringly. No, I nodded my head, I did not need him. Then, I thought, I'd better look at the bus schedule posted near the bus shelter. Sure enough, the 187 didn't start until 7 am. I ran back over to Abbey Road and immediately caught a cab over to Paddington, a short 5 minute ride away.
Niece-C's train was not yet at the station, so I hung around a bit. There was not much action near the Heathrow Express area, but lots of commuters arriving from the suburban hinterlands served by Paddington. I went back to the taxi area, and there was Niece-C waiting for me underneath a HUGE backpack. I hardly recognized her.
We hopped into a cab and were back at the flat shortly after 7 am. I put her to bed in the guest accomodations (a cot in the living room) and went out to my "Stitchery" group that meets every Thursday. When I got back at 1 pm, I woke her and we went out for a stroll around the neighborhood, then down to Oxford Street so she could get the lay of the land.
Every day I get her up a little earlier so she can get on the right time while she is here. She is on her way to a semester in Jordan (studying International Relations). She was supposed to go via Jerusalem, but decided along with her parents that this was not a great time to visit that area.
We have been having a great time. She motivates me to get out to the gym more often than I would normally, and the other day we took the guided tour of Westminster together. She went down to Brighton to see some Univ. friends last week, then came back for a night before going off to Paris for a long weekend. Then, on Son's 21st birthday, she'll be off to Jordan and we won't see her until our trip to Massachusetts next June.
Love and Light
- BlogMama
- London, NW8, United Kingdom
- A "recovering academic", I have left the world of research and teaching Psychology. My current focus is on offering hypnotherapy, Reiki, and spiritual support for clients and hospice residents. I like to express myself through the arts, especially drama (the quirky-comic relief part),stand-up comedy, painting, and the fiber arts.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Purple Haze
Some of you may be wondering: What's with the purple background and new font colors?
Blogmama received several requests from people who found the white type on black background too difficult to read.
As I am going through a magenta phase (I now sport a magenta patent leather handbag) I thought this might work as a replacement. Let me know.
Blogmama received several requests from people who found the white type on black background too difficult to read.
As I am going through a magenta phase (I now sport a magenta patent leather handbag) I thought this might work as a replacement. Let me know.
Sunrise, Sunset
The song "Sunrise, Sunset" from A Fiddler on the Roof is about the feelings parents have when they see their daughter has grown up and is ready for a new stage of life. When someone writes Assisted Living: The Musical and it makes its Broadway debut, there should be a song or two about what it feels like to see your parents' health and well-being decline to the point that they need full-time care of their bodies and minds.
This, then, would be the soundtrack for my recent visit to Florida. "Oh, you went to Florida. How nice!" people say, perhaps a little envious that I traded the frozen north of New England or the gray dampness of London for the sub-tropical splendor of South Florida. "Yes, I went to see my parents." I reply. "Oh, how nice!" comes the next conversational gambit. There is really no way to describe seeing your mother with the short-term memory of a three-year old, although her body remains vigorous, or your father, the WWII Warrior and Man of Action, now confined to a wheelchair and dependent on the kindness of aides for his every movement, including those of the bowel.
Their 2 bedroom apartment is kept at 79 degrees F, with the A/C on auto, so in the winter, when the outside air temperature is lower than that, the air conditioning will not come on, and the house becomes stifling hot. Being someone who is now prone to night sweats, this is not a good scene. Also, the bedrooms are first on the air duct route, and the sunporch area, which contains the "guest" daybed, is last. Convincing them to allow one to switch the A/C to constant fan at night is a feat reserved for only the most hardened debator.
Dad has developed a way of coping with the feeling of helplessness. As his aide wheels him to the breakfast table, he announces "A Descendent of the Roman Emperor Arriving In His Chariot". I took to adding a little trumpet flourish bleated through my cupped hand each time he arrived. The various aides were variously amused.
One day I took Mom over to the supermarket for a little food shopping. Another morning I cleaned out the fridge of all expired or suspicious-looking food. One afternoon I rifled through the pantry, consolidating all nine of the unopened bottles of salad dressing, for example, on one shelf (the same thing gets bought whether it is on the list or not), the boxes of teabags, etc.
I arrived on New Year's Day, so that there were football games on television. Luckily I had brought lots of knitting projects with me. Other programs watched were FOX news and the weather channel. Each and every time a commercial comes on, the TV is muted so that "we don't have to hear that stupid thing". Most times, the program resumes before the remote-control person realizes it and so the first 30 seconds of each watchable segment is aired without its audio. Sometimes, the person gets it right away, other times, the wrong button is pushed and the channel is changed or the scrolling menu is brought up. It is best not to get too invested in the outcome of any program as there is no guarantee that even a half hour show will be seen in its entirety without changing to check the weather or the stock market or the FOXy news.
When Israel decided to change its tactics from air to ground forces, we were then subjected to All-Gaza All The Time. Normally the sight of war machines rolling and countries attacking and retaliating and bombing and killing each other's citizens is something I cannot stand to watch. There was really no alternative, since I had inadvertantly killed their computer, so I continued to sit and knit. I decided it's much easier to be an armchair bourgeois pacifist if it is NOT your own country that is being attacked.
Another day I took Mom to Macy's so she could buy a new outfit. She decided on a shirt. It had to meet certain specifications, such as button-front (over-the-head too difficult), short sleeves of a certain length (to hide crepe-y arm flab - her words, not mine) and only certain colors and styles. While she decided on the shirt I tried on seven things and bought three of them.
One morning I wheeled Dad in his wheelchair "around the lake", which takes about fifteen minutes, and then over to the rose garden. Even though it was only 9:30 in the morning, the heat was enough to get me winded after only one lap. Dad enjoyed pointing out the more garish Christmas decorations, which reminded me of when I was younger. We would drive around the neighborhood and "tut-tut" at the houses which were "lit up like a bar-and-grill". Once they moved to Florida thirty years ago we would drive around and look at the palm trees festooned with lights and the pink or turquoise fake trees inside people's houses.
On our rolling tour Dad wanted to share his particular favorite holiday decoration. It was a giant inflatable pirate ship being piloted by Santa which he called "Sailbad the Sinner". This was one of those contraptions which is made of parachute nylon and uses a hair-dryer motor to inflate itself. This particular specimen was about six feet tall and eight feet long. The pirate ship is crewed by a bunch of reindeer: one has an eye patch, one is fishing off the bow, and another pops up from the crow's nest intermittantly and peers through binoculars at the passers-by. This crazy show totally eclipsed the next-door neighbor's rooftop display, which was of Santa arriving by inflatable helicopter, with actual spinning inflatable rotors.
All of this ticky-tacky, including fake evergreen wreaths on every other front door, was set amidst gorgeous tropical gardens with flowering shrubs, flowering trees, and beds of annual and perrenial plants. Bougainvillea, impatiens and roses in fuschia and magenta blossoms jockeyed for position with banana trees hanging with unripe fruit, rampant crimson coleus, hibiscus, and gardenia bushes the size of a volkswagen. Over all of this reigned the floss-silk tree, (Ceibia speciosa) whose bark looks like a wrinkly elephant covered with a pox of thorns on steroids. Some of this tree's flowers were still clinging to the bare-of-leaves branches, while others had fallen on to the short-shorn lawn like discarded tissues. Close examination of the blossoms revealed silken white petals with one white stamen tipped a gorgeous fuschia, as if it had somehow brushed up against the bougainvillea and been permanently stained for its sin of lust.
Our perambulation took us past the exotic waterfowl pond, where we saw Mama Asian Goose sitting on her nest with Papa Asian Goose standing watchfully by. No activity emanated from the nest, although Mama preened and repositioned herself among the invisible eggs. It was a poignent reminder of the circle of life, as Dad and Mom have reached the sunset of their own lives at on Lakeside Circle.
I flew back to Boston on January 5th and returned to the bosom of the knitting group for one more day...
This, then, would be the soundtrack for my recent visit to Florida. "Oh, you went to Florida. How nice!" people say, perhaps a little envious that I traded the frozen north of New England or the gray dampness of London for the sub-tropical splendor of South Florida. "Yes, I went to see my parents." I reply. "Oh, how nice!" comes the next conversational gambit. There is really no way to describe seeing your mother with the short-term memory of a three-year old, although her body remains vigorous, or your father, the WWII Warrior and Man of Action, now confined to a wheelchair and dependent on the kindness of aides for his every movement, including those of the bowel.
Their 2 bedroom apartment is kept at 79 degrees F, with the A/C on auto, so in the winter, when the outside air temperature is lower than that, the air conditioning will not come on, and the house becomes stifling hot. Being someone who is now prone to night sweats, this is not a good scene. Also, the bedrooms are first on the air duct route, and the sunporch area, which contains the "guest" daybed, is last. Convincing them to allow one to switch the A/C to constant fan at night is a feat reserved for only the most hardened debator.
Dad has developed a way of coping with the feeling of helplessness. As his aide wheels him to the breakfast table, he announces "A Descendent of the Roman Emperor Arriving In His Chariot". I took to adding a little trumpet flourish bleated through my cupped hand each time he arrived. The various aides were variously amused.
One day I took Mom over to the supermarket for a little food shopping. Another morning I cleaned out the fridge of all expired or suspicious-looking food. One afternoon I rifled through the pantry, consolidating all nine of the unopened bottles of salad dressing, for example, on one shelf (the same thing gets bought whether it is on the list or not), the boxes of teabags, etc.
I arrived on New Year's Day, so that there were football games on television. Luckily I had brought lots of knitting projects with me. Other programs watched were FOX news and the weather channel. Each and every time a commercial comes on, the TV is muted so that "we don't have to hear that stupid thing". Most times, the program resumes before the remote-control person realizes it and so the first 30 seconds of each watchable segment is aired without its audio. Sometimes, the person gets it right away, other times, the wrong button is pushed and the channel is changed or the scrolling menu is brought up. It is best not to get too invested in the outcome of any program as there is no guarantee that even a half hour show will be seen in its entirety without changing to check the weather or the stock market or the FOXy news.
When Israel decided to change its tactics from air to ground forces, we were then subjected to All-Gaza All The Time. Normally the sight of war machines rolling and countries attacking and retaliating and bombing and killing each other's citizens is something I cannot stand to watch. There was really no alternative, since I had inadvertantly killed their computer, so I continued to sit and knit. I decided it's much easier to be an armchair bourgeois pacifist if it is NOT your own country that is being attacked.
Another day I took Mom to Macy's so she could buy a new outfit. She decided on a shirt. It had to meet certain specifications, such as button-front (over-the-head too difficult), short sleeves of a certain length (to hide crepe-y arm flab - her words, not mine) and only certain colors and styles. While she decided on the shirt I tried on seven things and bought three of them.
One morning I wheeled Dad in his wheelchair "around the lake", which takes about fifteen minutes, and then over to the rose garden. Even though it was only 9:30 in the morning, the heat was enough to get me winded after only one lap. Dad enjoyed pointing out the more garish Christmas decorations, which reminded me of when I was younger. We would drive around the neighborhood and "tut-tut" at the houses which were "lit up like a bar-and-grill". Once they moved to Florida thirty years ago we would drive around and look at the palm trees festooned with lights and the pink or turquoise fake trees inside people's houses.
On our rolling tour Dad wanted to share his particular favorite holiday decoration. It was a giant inflatable pirate ship being piloted by Santa which he called "Sailbad the Sinner". This was one of those contraptions which is made of parachute nylon and uses a hair-dryer motor to inflate itself. This particular specimen was about six feet tall and eight feet long. The pirate ship is crewed by a bunch of reindeer: one has an eye patch, one is fishing off the bow, and another pops up from the crow's nest intermittantly and peers through binoculars at the passers-by. This crazy show totally eclipsed the next-door neighbor's rooftop display, which was of Santa arriving by inflatable helicopter, with actual spinning inflatable rotors.
All of this ticky-tacky, including fake evergreen wreaths on every other front door, was set amidst gorgeous tropical gardens with flowering shrubs, flowering trees, and beds of annual and perrenial plants. Bougainvillea, impatiens and roses in fuschia and magenta blossoms jockeyed for position with banana trees hanging with unripe fruit, rampant crimson coleus, hibiscus, and gardenia bushes the size of a volkswagen. Over all of this reigned the floss-silk tree, (Ceibia speciosa) whose bark looks like a wrinkly elephant covered with a pox of thorns on steroids. Some of this tree's flowers were still clinging to the bare-of-leaves branches, while others had fallen on to the short-shorn lawn like discarded tissues. Close examination of the blossoms revealed silken white petals with one white stamen tipped a gorgeous fuschia, as if it had somehow brushed up against the bougainvillea and been permanently stained for its sin of lust.
Our perambulation took us past the exotic waterfowl pond, where we saw Mama Asian Goose sitting on her nest with Papa Asian Goose standing watchfully by. No activity emanated from the nest, although Mama preened and repositioned herself among the invisible eggs. It was a poignent reminder of the circle of life, as Dad and Mom have reached the sunset of their own lives at on Lakeside Circle.
I flew back to Boston on January 5th and returned to the bosom of the knitting group for one more day...
Sunday, December 28, 2008
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!
.
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!
.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, December 15, 2008
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.
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.
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