England Day Five: The Cotswolds and Stratford

When you think of England, you probably think of the Cotswolds.  Thatched roof Tudor style cottages or stonework homes loaded with flowers and surrounded by fields of sheep. They're just as overly cute as you could possibly imagine.  Except, unlike a Thomas Kinkade painting, they're legit.  I love the Cotswolds.  There is a simple and elegant peace that comes with this part of the world.  It's almost an Eden - flowers grow out of stone because it's wet enough here that it doesn't take much work to get anything to thrive.  (Gardeners around here probably spend more time killing things than they do coaxing them out of the ground, lucky devils.). If you ever plan a trip to England, a few days meandering the Cotswolds are a must.

Before we came we invested in the National Trust touring pass, which was really smart.  Once you've paid for the pass you can get in free to any National Trust site - it's already more than paid for itself since admission to these places is usually at least £10. The National Trust is a kind of hybrid between the American National Parks/Heritage Sites services.  Over the years, homes have been given over to the trust so that tourists can come see them and areas of land have been protected from further development in an attempt to preserve, in essence, what makes England England.  You can thank Beatrix Potter of Peter Rabbit fame for much of the northern part of England being as pristine as it is, for example.  I'm sure the National Trust makes some elements of life for the Brits inconvenient, but as a lover of history, it makes my life pretty wonderful.  National Trust sites are everywhere.  Really.  Look up the website - there are hundreds.  There's no way we could possibly see them all.  With the combined efforts of Rick Steves, the National Trust app, our hostess, and our own gut instinct, we settled on three places for today's visits: the town of Chipping Campden, Hidcote Manor, and Charlecote Park.

Chipping Campden is a great example of a cute Cotswold town.  It would be fun to stay there when I come back to this area again.  There wasn't much traditional touring to do, but the town itself is adorable.  There were great artisan style shops (including a cheese and book store - I made it out without spending any money, though - if you can possibly believe my self control!).  There was, as always, a church to go see and an "oldest house" to go see - in this town the oldest house dates back to the 1300s, which is pretty impressive.  Apparently, Chipping Campden was once a great world center of trade when wool was the thing to buy - tradesmen came from as far away as Italy to buy wool in the Market Square, which still stands.

After Chipping Campden we went to Hidcote Manor.  This was by far my favorite place of the day.  Even though it was raining intermittently, Hidcote was perfect.  Ironically, Hidcote is the standard of English gardening, but it was designed by Major Lawrence Johnson - an American.  Johnson was a horticulturalist who promoted the idea of creating "rooms" in a garden - using shrubbery mazes to set "rooms" aside, he developed rooms dedicated to color or specific regions of plants - plants from all over the world grow there.  I even saw a palm tree (who knew that those could grow in such a cold, wet location?!) Walking through each room led to one surprise after another in flowers that smelled amazing or that I'd never seen before.  (Or had, but not in that variety.  A huge blue poppy, for example.  Or sweet peas in a deep magenta.) I adored Hidcote.  I would love to go back.

Our final Trust site for the day was Charlecote Park.  The home is more than 900 years old and has been with the same family for all that time (though this is really only still true because they turned over their home to the National Trust and only live in part of the house now). Touring the house was a treat because it was kept in such excellent condition (or has been restored well, at least.) My favorite room was, naturally, the library.  My favorite room is always the library. This one was particularly nice as it had lots of comfy chairs, but also felt cozy enough to actually enjoy a book in.  So many libraries in these old houses feel like they're just for show.

We get lots of people asking us about where we're from when we show up to these sites since many of them are off the beaten path enough that Americans don't bother to tour (or even know the place exists).  Everyone wants to share their Utah stories.  Today involved a super awesome/awkward discussion with a man who talked about how he wanted a copy of the "Mormon Bible" (but didn't want to give his home address and all that), and how he saw a picture of "Holy Joe" and thought he looked as charismatic as Bill Clinton.  Haven't had one of those kinds of chats in a looooong time.

One of the other features of this house are some tamed deer.  They roam the fields just outside the house and let you get fairly close to watch - they were beautiful.  They were also, apparently, on sale in the kitchen.  Or, rather, their old friends.  Fresh venison.  Oy.

By the time we made it to Stratford all the tourist options were closed, but we did at least see Shakespeare's birthplace.  The house itself stands out rather awkwardly on an otherwise normal street.  I didn't miss the tour - I don't remember being that excited by it when I went through last time.

The highlight of the day was definitely Doctor Faustus at The Swan theatre, performed through the Royal Shakespeare Company.  The production opened with two men dressed identically walking on stage with mirrored mannerisms, eventually lighting each lighting a match.  Both actors are ready to play either Faustus or Mephistopheles - but they don't know who will play whom until the match burns out.  Whichever burns out first plays Faustus.  No pressure.

Faustus is a man in search of all knowledge and power and he finds it by selling his soul to Lucifer (through Mephistopheles).  He is promised many years of power and fortune and pleasure in exchange for damnation.  The play is a little thin on character development (at least compared to what Shakespeare was doing at roughly the same time), but Marlowe's play translated well to this avant-garde style production, which really was fantastic.  They used a chalkboard stage so that plans and devilry could be worked out in reality, not just mime.  The costumes for the seven deadly sins were phenomenal.

Technical production values aside, my favorite moment of the show comes as Faustus realizes what he has lost in his quest for power, or, what Christopher Marlowe seems to suggest is the purpose for being: connection to other people.  There is a servant that comes in to beg Faustus not to continue with his work, for example.  Later on, Faustus meets with Helen of Troy.  First she fights him - then hugs him fiercely - then fights, and finally "dies" or goes limp every time he touches her.  They whole thing quietly, almost silently showing that Faustus has completely lost his chance to connect with a pure, good human being in any legitimate way.  Shortly after this he makes a mad attempt to stab Mephistopheles and find a way to reclaim his possibility of ascending to heaven, only to find that the act of stabbing at this devil only injured him - he stabs Mephistopheles, but he is the one that begins to bleed and ends up dying.

There are, I think, several elements to this play that I didn't fully grasp, but I'm anxious to go read it and study it out.  I do find it funny, though, that the most wild production I'm likely to see (there are still eight more ahead!) is this one - the play from more than 500 years ago.  Go figure.

Tomorrow is Oxford day.  Glorious!  I love Oxford.

Things that make me want to move to England:

The National Trust
Clotted Cream Fudge
English Gardens  

Things that keep me from being an ex-Pat:

I miss the interstate.  Driving here is a mess of roads and side roads.  You get to drive through really cute towns, I guess, but I don't know how anyone ever gets from one place to the other without a GPS.  It took us an hour to get twenty miles home tonight because there was no direct path.  The longest we stayed on a single road was nine miles.  Oy.

England Day Four: Blenheim Palace

Today was reserved entirely for Blenheim Palace.  Blenheim has lived in my memory as an ostentatious vomit of extravagance.  I remember endless tapestries, gold gilding, and a huge collection of dishes.  I think we must have had a slightly abridged tour today because, compared to what it was like before, I didn't feel nearly as overwhelmed by the grandeur of Blenheim.  Public tours now include the main floor, which consists primarily of sitting rooms and a dining room.  To access other areas of the house, you need to buy an extra ticket.

Blenheim Palace is the home of the Duke of Marlborough and has been since the land was gifted in the early 1700s to John Churchill, the first Duke, who had a military success so impressive in the War of Spanish Succession that the Queen (Anne) granted him rights to build the home.  (He was nothing before this - just a military leader who managed to weasel his way into favor of three successive monarchs until he finally earned this distinction.) The following 300 years led to a bit of drama that looked to lead to doom for the palace, but one of the Dukes (the 9th) married Consuelo Vanderbilt, and her fortune was able to save the house.  (It was, apparently, an incredibly unhappy marriage, but it did save the house.  Win some, lose some?). In honor of the "gift" of this property, the current Duke has to present a flag to the Queen each year.  This flag goes on display in various places for two years, then is stored.  All of these flags are stored and kept.  Not reused, not burned or otherwise destroyed.  Long live tradition!

We took a tour to the private upstairs apartments so we can see where current guests of the house stay.  They are much more modern than any chambers I've seen in other estate homes.  We roamed through rooms that the Queen, Prince of Wales, President Clinton and others have stayed in before.  We also learned some interesting trivia. (You get out on the "wrong side of the bed" because tall beds would have stairs to help you up and getting out on the side opposite the stairs could be unpleasant.)

Our guide was excited to point out a currently under construction "power shower", which is code for "shower" - the first in the house.  Everyone else has to take a bath.  Truthfully, they are lucky they get baths.  There was a bathroom installed in the 1800s, but one of the Dukes came in and thought having a bathroom was completely unnecessary and had it taken out.  The first permanent bathroom was installed in 1880 when a potential Duchess (American) refused to marry the Duke until he agreed to install a bathroom.  More were later installed in 1934.  This brings me to today's installment of Britain vs. America, today with a "nobility" twist:

What would make me want to be a Duchess:

I like to dress up, and having a stylist would be fantastic.  You were deemed worthy of a ladies maid as early as 12 or 13, and it would be excellent to have had some help getting through my horrible fashion years as a teenager.

You'd eat really well and wouldn't have to clean up or cook anything.

Having someone pack and unpack for me (and haul my luggage around) would be great.

It would be awesome to have an estate big enough that you could run five miles and still be on your own land (that you don't have to mow).

Sock slide competition.

What keeps me from really wanting to living Blenheim Palace:

My house is much more convenient.  Fully functioning bathroom right next door.  (There seems to be a bit of a bathroom theme for keeping me in the US. . .)

I have a bigger TV in my bedroom than any of the guest rooms in Blenheim.  (True story!)

I have a better reading selection than any of the guest rooms we saw.

Truthfully, the private section of the house is beautiful and it would be delightful to be a guest, but the home wasn't nearly as intimidatingly extravagant as I remember it being.  I'm wondering if I saw more of the house last time.  The main floor of the palace is certainly grand.  What fascinated me most on this trip, though, was the information on Winston Churchill.  Winston was born in Blenheim (accidentally - he was two months early).  His birth bed (and curly locks of five year old hair) are on display in the palace, along with a short but detailed exhibit on his life and accomplishments.  He began as a bit of a rascal - he loved to get into mischief and had an early interest in the military.  (One story is that he would play "England vs. France" with his cousin, the future Duke of Marlborough, and had two rules to the game: 1st, he was the General of the English.  2nd, that he was ALWAYS the General of the English.)

His educational years were also rough and non-distinguished.  One plaque had his exam scores posted.  Out of a possible score of 2000, Winston only earned about 350 on his Latin exam.  The rest of his scores were round 1200.  He didn't really begin to excel until military school.  From there he apparently gained all the skills he needed to become one of the best leaders and orators the world has ever seen.  Winston is proof to me that everyone can become great if they are given the chance to pursue the things they love.  He went on to become a Nobel prize winning writer and the first person to become an honorary American.  Oh - and he did that little thing of saving the United Kingdom during the war. I'm anxious to learn more about him - I think I'll get a biography when I get home.

After wandering through the palace we went in for lunch at The Orangery (foooooood!) and went for a walk around the grounds.  The grounds are vast and beautiful, built around an enormous lake.  Or, more accurately, built to include a lake.  The lake is entirely man made.  Would that I had that kind of money!  We saw a beautiful rose garden, just on the edge of bursting into full bloom.  The roses that were out were gorgeous and huge.  My favorite was a "Troika" rose - the petals had a perfect mix of orange, yellow, and pink coloring that made it look like a sunset.  We also wandered around a few areas that have been featured in films, including a bridge used in the most recent Cinderella, and a tree featured in one of Snape's memories in Harry Potter.  (It was a pretty fantastic tree.)

Overall, we had a wonderful day at Blenheim.  In addition to all the history, there were celebrations going on to honor the Queen's unofficial birthday.  Her literal birthday is in April, but it is celebrated in June.  There was a big television in the main grounds of the palace showcasing the celebrations in London (so glad I'm not there!), and bands were there to play music.  It really was quite festive and fun.  I haven't the faintest idea when President Obama's birthday is, so the idea of celebrating the birthday of a leader is unique to me.  I bought an ornament of a corgi wearing a crown in honor of the day.  Tomorrow we are going to make use of our National Trust pass and visit several off the beaten path homes, then we'll head to Stratford to catch a showing of Faustus.  We'll be home late enough that I'm not sure I'll end up writing tomorrow, but I'll do my best.  Cheers!

England Day Three: Gloucester, Bibury, Church Handborough

Jet lag is a pain.  I'm glad we're staying long enough to fully adjust because even on our third day I feel exhausted.  I'm looking forward to a good night of sleep tonight!

We did get a bit of a late start this morning, which did feel nice.  After breakfast we went directly into town in the direction of the cathedral.  The cathedral exterior was featured in an episode of Doctor Who, so, naturally, we had to go in search of the location they'd filmed.  This brought us stumbling upon a church called Saint Mary de Lode.  This is the oldest church in Gloucester (given that the cathedral was a monastery first).  I don't know that the church gets too many visitors since it's a bit off the path and the cathedral is so prominent - they were excited to have us.  The church itself was preparing for a wedding and had cakes and coffee for sale.  We got a personal tour of the facility with special attention on the organ, one of only two of its kind in the country.  It's an organ with origins in the mid 1700s. It was a pretty detour.

We arrived at the cathedral just in time for a tour of the crypt.  We couldn't see too much of the crypt - it's being used for a film at the moment (no official word on what, so we're taking that to mean Game of Thrones.)  The tour guide was excellent and gave lots of really interesting information on the history of the structure and its function.  I learned the origin of the term "upper crust" - bread used to be made over the fire, which meant that temperature regulation was nearly impossible, and very often the bread was burnt on the bottom and cooked nicely on the top.  The "upper crust" would be given to the wealthy, the lower pieces given to the poor.  She also pointed out an area that was used to stow some of the treasures of England during WWII.  Apparently, the government sent Gloucester a mysterious box and asked them to hold onto it for the duration of the war.  They found out later that it was the throne for the king/queen.  The humor of this story comes from Edward II, whose shroud was stored on top of the throne, something his son (Edward III) would have been quite pleased with, as he was always upset that his father hadn't officially been crowned king.  At last, after six hundred years, Edward II got an accidental turn.

Gloucester Cathedral has played host to many films, including Harry Potter.  I had a supreme sense of deja vu walking into the cloisters - suddenly I was in Hogwarts.  It's easy to see why they picked it - the stone work in the hall is unbelievably detailed and pretty.  The courtyard in the center is also beautiful - most that I've seen are relatively plain with grass and trees, but this one had stone pathways, a fountain, and flowers everywhere.  I really enjoyed it.

Before we left we were treated to a practice by the South Cotswold Choral Group, the Burford Singers, the Regency Sinfonia Orchestra and some soloists.  They were rehearsing for a concert of The Dream of Gerontius by Elgar being performed tonight.  We didn't stay for the whole thing, but it was quite the contrast from the off key "California Dreamin'" experience from yesterday - the orchestra and choir all resonating around the stone of the cathedral was a dream.  I can only hope we continue to stumble upon music experiences on this trip.  It's been so fun!

From Gloucester we drove to Bibury.  Bibury is "shut up, this can't be real" kind of cute.  It's almost saccharine.  It's the kind of look that I'm pretty sure men who hate Jane Austen imagine when they're dragged to what my grandpa calls "bonnet movies" - only instead of being a set, it's real.  Bibury has a row of cottages that used to house a thriving weaving market.  Now people still live there (seriously).  The trade off for living in heaven, it seems, is being surrounded by Asian tourists.  I've never seen so many Asians all in one place in England, ever.  I'd guess it to be a fluke, but one of the houses had a sign up that declared its garden to be "Private" in not just English, but what looked to be Japanese and Mandarin.  In spite of the insane tourism, though, Bibury was well worth the drive.  The drive in, the town itself, and the drive out were all so beautiful I nearly melted into a puddle of Anglophilia.

We ended today checking into our first Airbnb stay in a town called Church Handborough, about 20 minutes outside of Oxford.  It's a quaint little town and it's nice to have some space after being in hotels.  We have a private kitchen and living area, shared bathroom, and two bedrooms (I get my own room! Yay!!). We also have a private garden that I can't wait to eat breakfast in.  Our hostess is very nice and has lots of great advice on what to see in the area.  She's been a tour guide in a few of the major Oxford sites, so she knows her stuff.  It will be fun to stay.

We ended the day with a quick trip to the co-op for breakfast and bagged lunch options, then headed to the Hand and Sheers - the local pub.  Pub etiquette is something that Americans are often oblivious to.  You go in and pick a table, order at the bar when you're ready, and stay as long as you like.  Imagine my surprise, then, when we went into this pub to eat and went in with the intention of finding a place to sit when we were asked if we had a reservation.  Reservation?  It was already after 8:00 PM, and this was a pub.  Since when were reservations required?  Fortunately, they were able to "squeeze us in" (they had at least five empty tables), and the food was excellent.

Finally, things Britain does that America should do:

Digestive biscuits.  Especially the chocolate and caramel ones.  I know you can find them in the states, but they are so blasted expensive.

Cathedrals.  This is a little unique to Mormon-country, but I hate that there aren't places that are open virtually all the time for thought and prayer and worship.  Our churches are almost too functional and our temples dedicated primarily to the work we do in them.  Although both of these locations can (and should be) used for reflection and prayer, there's something different about having a house of worship that is beautiful and set aside for time to reflect.

Pub culture.  Pubs in Britain are places to hang out and chat and be together with friends and family.  In America, pub (or bar) culture generally stems from saloon culture.  I love hanging out in pubs.

And what keeps me from being an ex-pat:

My friend Evelyn linked me to the British road sign guide published by the government.  It was 149 pages long.  My Driver's Ed book couldn't have been more than about 40.

Every shower I've used here has some kind of "trick" to getting it right.  I don't need to experiment with any shower I've ever used in the States.

England: Day Two - Salisbury, Stourhead, and Gloucester

Day Two: Salisbury Cathedral, Stourhead Gardens, Gloucester

We got an early start this morning.  With lots to see and an early night to help us out, we were up and ready to go by 8:00.  Our hotel provided breakfast so we got the full English breakfast experience.  English breakfasts really do need to be experienced, but not every day.  They generally consist of a fried egg, sausage, bacon (thick Canadian style bacon, not thin American slices), fried toast, hash browns, tomato, and some beans.  Sometimes (like today) some mushrooms and black pudding are thrown into the mixture.  Black pudding has been hailed as a "superfood" lately, but I think it's nasty - it's a kind of sausage but it looks like. . .oh, I don't know.  A burned slice of spam.  Most of the places we're staying on this trip will have self-catering breakfasts, though, so today we gorged ourselves on an unhealthy selection of grease.  Delicious!(?)

After breakfast we walked over to the cathedral.  We went last night but were too late to tour the cathedral properly - they were having a service, though, and from outside we could hear the organ blaring and the congregation singing while we walked the grounds.  It was stunning.  We were lucky enough to hear the organ from the inside today - the Salisbury school was holding a special service for their students to honor the Queen's birthday and to acknowledge the work of their upper students who are finishing their exams. (They have five more weeks of school, poor sods.) Having the students there meant we were treated to more music as we were wandering the beautiful halls of the cathedral.  (Did you know that "Pomp and Circumstance" has lyrics?  When the students were leaving and the organ started playing the song, all of them - even the youngest students - started unofficially singing along. It wasn't a ritual, they just knew the song.)

Salisbury Cathedral is a bit of a marvel - it was built in a mere 38 years (more impressive when you remember that it was completed in 1258).  It contains what is believed to be the world's oldest working clock.  Said clock has ticked more than 8 billion times since it was installed. Wild.
The back of the cathedral has what may be my favorite stained glass I've ever seen.  It was my favorite back when I first visited Salisbury and has remained so since.  It's a deep blue glass known as the "Prisoners of Conscience" window, dedicated to anyone "imprisoned because of of their race, sexual orientation, religion, or political views or beliefs."  From a distance it is primarily blue with flecks of color - up close those flecks of color are faces.  They remind me of a painting of Christ by Minerva Teichart called "Rescue of the Lost Lamb".  I love this painting for many reasons.  In it, there are innumerable white sheep.  Christ holds a black baby lamb.  I love this because of what it could represent to others of color who often feel lost in a world that seems to favor those of us who are white.  I also love what it means to me personally, since I often feel that my views and beliefs are at odds with the culture I'm surrounded by.

There is a definite message of the power of freedom of speech within the Cathedral.  This seems appropriate since it houses one of the remaining original copies of the Magna Carta. There was a wonderful exhibit on the history and power of the freedom of speech.  Given the upcoming vote in Britain on whether or not they should stay with the EU, there does seem to be a good deal of discussion on the responsibility and blessing of freedom of speech.  That in mind, I will use mine to say that both of our presidential candidates are insane.

After leaving Salisbury we went to Stourhead.  The last time I went to Stourhead it was nine years ago, and after I'd gotten up at 4:00 in the morning to see Stonehenge.  I was beyond tired and in real need of a bathroom, so I didn't see much of it (which was foolish.) We made up for it on this trip by exploring for about two hours.  The gardens of Stourhead are so wonderfully English - they are manicured to look like they haven't been manicured at all.  Rolling lawns and endless rhododendron, lush trees and a beautiful lake - this estate has it all.  It also has great Romanesque temples, referencing the early 1800s when the British were obsessed with the ancients.  Speaking of which, Pride and Prejudice was filmed here.  Back when I was there with my study abroad companions, we took many "longing for Darcy" dramatic pictures.  This time around, I took "suck it.  I don't need a man!" happy pictures.

From there, we traveled to Gloucester.  Gloucester is steeped in religious history and has lots of connection to America, at least according to our hotel concierge.  There used to be a foundry that made bells, for example, that built the first set of church bells in America (found in Boston).  Methodist and Unitarian branches of faith in America both have roots in this city, and the cathedral is impressive.  It's one of the oldest in England, with the foundations having been commissioned as early as AD 678 and officially finished sometime in the 1300s.  The stained glass contains what is thought to be the earliest images of golf (several hundred years prior to golf showing up in Scotland.  Scandal!), and there are carvings that represent men playing some sort of game with a ball - assumed to be football (naturally).

We didn't get to see the cathedral properly (we got there too late), but we did get the delightful treat of hearing an amateur local choir perform for their families.  They performed some hymns, but mostly a motley collection of pop songs, including "California Dreamin'", "Happy Together" and "Fernando".  Let me tell you something.  American choirs spend a huge amount of time trying to learn to sing like the British in more formal songs, but Brits could learn a thing or two about letting go on pop songs.  It was delightfully and adorably hilarious, bless them.

We stopped at a Tesco on the way back to the hotel to pick up some snacks for the road.  I had to refrain from buying ALL THE THINGS.  We've still got three weeks before we need to stock up on food to bring home, after all.  I settled on caramel digestives, a pack of Galaxy Minstrels (basically M&Ms but with way better chocolate), fruit pastilles and, of course, a Müller yoghurt corner.  If you've talked with me about Europe ever before, you know my feelings on European yoghurt vs. American yoghurt.  So, that said: today's round of "things the British do that Americans should do too":

1. Yoghurt.  It's less sugary here.
2. The motorway (interstate/freeway) often has chevrons painted on the pavement.  These are designed to tell you how much distance should be between you and the car ahead of you (two).  This would be crazy useful on I-15.

In the interest of fairness, these are "things Americans do that keep me from becoming an ex-pat":

1.Clear street signs.  It's probably because I'm a novice navigator to the British motorways, but the signs here have no logic that I can work out.  I'd die without google maps.
2.Showers large enough for even a person of my size to bend over in (we have newer plumbing systems, so this is a bit unfair since the British can't help it, but all the same.)
3. Less change.  Americans have the penny, nickel, dime, and the quarter in basic circulation.  (Granted, the nick names are useless to foreigners and we don't put how much each coin is worth on the coin, but at least there aren't many to learn.). The British have the penny, two pence, five, ten, twenty and fifty pence coins, as well as the pound and two pound coins.  That's seven different coins to heft around.  Bills are so much easier to deal with (and probably cheaper to produce) and having an enormous collection of change only encourages me to get rid of it, which means spending far too much money on sweets.  (Wait. . . Maybe this isn't a bad thing. . . )

It's the Smell - England Day One

Note: There are no pictures as of yet.  I am hoping to add pictures to my posts at some point, but it will not be this time.  Sorry!

Whenever I travel somewhere different, I like to hunt for that moment when I know that I'm in a new place.  When I went to Canada in high school, it was buying a Subway sandwich using different change.  When I went to Mexico, it was the lunatic street drivers and road signs I hadn't the faintest idea of how to follow.

This time it was the smell of the Tube.  You know the one.  If you've been to London, you know that there's a distinct (not necessarily bad, just definite) smell to the Underground.  I'd forgotten all about it until I was standing in the queue to get my Oyster card (pre-paid train pass card) and there it was.  England.

Admittedly, after that, there hasn't been much.  We've been on a slew of trains today in an attempt to make it to Salisbury (which, if you are reading this, we did.  Finally.)  The customs in Heathrow were horrid - the worst I've ever seen, and we missed our hoped for train.  This meant a round about travel on smaller commuter trains to get to quaint, cathedral be-decked Salisbury, south and west of London.

As romantic as I always imagined train travel to be before I actually did it, it is distinctly not, especially when you are jet-lagged, hauling all of your luggage, and hungry.  Also not when the bulk of your view consists of trees that are planted to protect homeowners from staring at trains all the time and train riders from having any kind of view.  I remember being in Germany and training from town to town past houses with their flower boxes and through the mountains and being in awe.  Today's train rides have left much to be desired.  I can't read - if I do I'll fall asleep and I'm not allowed to do that for another several hours.

I started making note of everything I thought in my pocket notebook in a mad attempt to keep my brain active.  I also got my hands on a copy of the Metro - a free (mostly gossipy/trashy) newspaper that, at the very least, has Sudoku and a crossword now.  Here are my jet-lagged thoughts:

The US needs to take note from Europeans and fix public bathrooms.  I'm not talking about any political issue here.  I'm talking about the doors.  Stalls in America have gaps big enough for anyone to peek through.  In Europe, the doors close and you're in your own little room with no gaps.  No one can peek in on you doing your business.  Why is this so hard.  I am looking forward to several weeks of happy public loo usage.  (I warned you these were jet-lagged.)

Money in Britain is squat and fat and money in America is long and lean.  Not sure what that symbolizes (nothing), but I feel like if I were still taking Creative Non Fiction writing classes in my prime while in college (ahem. University) I could find a way to make that symbolize the very essence of life.

I listened to a man on the train talk about "jacket spuds", which I'm assuming are baked potatoes.  I could have misheard.  I could also be totally wrong on what it refers to.  All the same, all baked potatoes should henceforth be known as "jacket spuds", because it just sounds so much cooler.

The Metro newspaper had some super awesome new updates.  A "hook up" section for travelers to leave notes for the hotties they saw but didn't talk to (ew), a brief story about a man who swears he's, err, "done it" with a ghost (EW), and a story about a town somewhere in the area where a large inflatable poo was stolen.  Inquiries are being made - said inflatable poo was meant to teach people to pick up their dog's waste in the park (I love the English.)

Other anecdotes:

My "trtl" pillow was the best.  I actually slept on the flight.  I haven't done that since I was lucky enough to get on a flight that was empty.  Next time you fly, look it up.  You won't regret it.

We got traditional pasties at the train station in. . .Ealing?  I think.  They were disappointing.

Our hotel has Galaxy Hot Chocolate and I about died of happiness.  I think Greg and Nicole (my travel companions) are a little bewildered by my glee over this.  I'm a little bewildered, truth be told, but I'm also tired, and being tired makes me excited over silly things (like hot chocolate in a room that's only cooled by a ceiling fan.

The Story of Izzy

When I moved out of my parents' house, they replaced me with a dog named Schatzie.  I resented this just a little, mainly because they waited until after I moved out to finally get a pet.  I'd grown up around people with pets, both my parents had grown up with pets, why did they have to wait until I moved out to get the blasted dog?!

I remember my mom telling me about how hard it was to potty train Schatzie and thinking that it was a nice karmic justice.  "She'd have been a lot easier to train if you had gotten her before I left," I thought.

Fortunately, Schatzie is a friendly little critter and still loves me when I come to visit, even though I don't see her more than a few times a year.  She comes and sleeps on my bed with me and paws at my door to come in for a belly rub.  She sits by my chair at dinner (when Dad isn't there) and begs for food (because I'm an easy target.)  It's a great thing.  It also meant that I knew I wanted pets of my own as soon as I could get them.

I anticipated getting a dog.  I love dogs.  I love their open affection.  I love teaching them tricks and watching them bark at paper bags.  I love how eager they are to please and how much personality they ooze when you get to know them.  The problem with dogs is how high maintenance they are, though - not ideal for a person who lives alone, works all day, and is often at rehearsal all night.  The poor dog would be miserably lonely.

Cat it is.  I'm already a Utah old maid.  Why not add crazy cat lady into the bargain, right?

Cats are generally introverted, independent little souls.  I'd grown up around them too - mostly my grandparents' cats that hated when we came because it meant being shut up somewhere to save my dad and brothers the allergies.  But I'd had fish (boring) and spent a weekend taking care of a class hamster (smelly) and knew that if I could find the right cat, it would be kismet.

So I went to the local Best Friends Animal Society website and searched for adult shorthaired cats that were under the age of five and over the age of one.  I wrote down the names of all the kitties that looked cute in their pictures and took the list (and an army of help from friends) to the shelter, expecting that I would give them the list and they would present me with the cats for inspection.

Nope.  The shelter is made up of a series of glass-walled cat "hotels" that you can walk into and play with cats at will.  The list I made went out the door and I spent the next hour going from room to room trying to find some kitty that I connected with in some way.

And then:

She was in the first of the rooms by the desk on her back legs, looking right at me and pawing at the door.  And she had those massive eyes and I picked her up and she purred and purred and I HAD TO TAKE HER. 

And re-name her.  She was "Pumpkin" before I got her.  False.  What a horrid name for a cat.  I came armed with a list of Shakespearean inspired name candidates, but she was such a little waif that I couldn't name her "Beatrice" so Izzy it was, named for one of my favorite characters on television and inspired by Isolde of ancient Tristan and Isolde fame.  Funny thing was, she was the first cat on my list, and I didn't even realize it until I had already decided she was supposed to be mine.  And she came home with me.  And she purred and purred and purred. 

Then she pooped. 

And it smelled terrible. 

And I thought WHAT THE @#$& DID I JUST DO TO MYSELF.  I am now responsible for this creature.  I am sharing a space with her.  I am voluntarily cleaning her poop and she's getting fur everywhere and she could live FOREVER.  I DON'T THINK I'M READY FOR THAT KIND OF COMMITMENT!!

But then she did this

She sleeps with her paws like I sleep with my arms and legs.  We're twins!

: 

And this: 

Yup.  First night she spent with me and she fell asleep on my lap.

And this: 

LOOK AT THAT BELLY.

And my post-pet-partum ebbed away and made room for a furry little critter who gets into mischief now and then, but mostly just keeps me company and makes sure that I'm never alone.  I love the "uh" pout she makes when I pick her up to cuddle when she doesn't want to, but tolerates that I want to.  I love when she comes and curls up next to me to sleep like it's the safest place in the world.  I like when she sits in front of my phone to get attention.  I like playing cat volleyball with her.  I love that when I'm sad or disappointed or depressed I can count on a non-judgmental being to come hop up next to me and make the space a little less empty.  Now I can say with confidence: my children, should they ever exist, will never be replaced by a pet.  They'll just always have one around. 

90:10

It's been a while since I've written.  It's been a while since I've wanted to write.  With funerals (both grandparents, see previous posts) and school and personal drama, motivation has been a bit thin on the ground.  I'd think about what to write and come up short.  (Something about my cat?  No.  I over share pictures of her as it is and no one cares.  Politics?  Too gross to talk about right now.  They're all crazy.  Teaching?  No.  Not enough going on there that's any different from the norm, and if it is different, it's not really a good idea to write about.)

Recent events have had me thinking a bit more than normal about the reality of my life.  I know I write about this a lot as well, but the past several months have changed my perspective significantly in some ways and solidified them in others, and I need to get it off my chest.  Maybe so I can move on to that final stage of grief (past anger and to acceptance).  Maybe because I don't feel like this is a story that I often acknowledge.  Maybe because I'm tired and don't know how better to say what I'm thinking than here.  Having the conversation over and over with myself is exhausting.

I have to accept that to many, I am not the ideal.  Not just my "situation" (as people want to call it), but me, personally.  I am too independent, too "unique", too cowardly, too picky, too something to be married.  (As if abandoning one of those things would magically produce the perfect spouse, lovingly gift-wrapped.  As if the correct formula of goodness or ambition were enough to solve your "problem".)  This is hard, because happy marriages and good family life are a very worthy ideal.  They are also an ideal that becomes a pipe dream for many (even those that are married.)  I've lived enough to see so many of my friends get married, divorced, and re-married.  Whatever love I could have now is not of the naive fairy tale variety.  Regardless of any of that - the fact is, to many, my life is a problem that needs to be "solved".  I am Maria so I must be in search of a Captain. 

I have to accept that many feel I have not yet "arrived" at adulthood.  I am encouraged to attend services with single people of comparable age, where I would then be governed and supervised by married individuals who plan activities largely centered around things the average twelve-year-old enjoys.  Things I hate doing.  In the hierarchy of church thought, there seem to be limits to single adult capability until you are past your expiration date (re: you "age out" of said congregations.)  In fairness, I have been lucky enough to be in a ward for the last year where I am treated with kindness and respect.  It's made a world of difference because it hasn't always been the case.

I feel like I have to validate my happiness to others.  So many assume that to be single is to be desperate when the truth is, I'm not - at least not most of the time.  The truth that I don't know how to tell people is that I am happy not getting married, maybe ever.  To hear them say "when", while I want to say "if", because it is no guarantee.  I find dating utterly exhausting and endlessly frustrating.  It doesn't matter how many times I am told that I am beautiful and smart and how unfathomable it is that I'm not married and that I "will be some day!", the fact of the matter is that I have nearly three decades of evidence to suggest otherwise.  The fact of the matter is that I've never had a boyfriend.  That the closest I ever came was only recently, and said person abandoned me without even the courtesy of a "not interested" text.  Just radio silence and the disappointment of feeling as though I'd let everyone down again.

Even worse - I feel like I have to validate my happiness to myself.  To remember that I have a good life.  That I get the chance to travel, to teach, to inspire, to perform.  That I have a family that regularly affirms and validates me and where I am now.  That I am not sharing stories of children sick with stomach flu or pictures of Sharpie mishaps.  That even though not one little piece of me wants either the flu stories or the marker pictures, there is a very real part of me that sincerely hurts at the thought of not being loved by someone like that and loving them back.  That part of me that wants to break every disk of every movie I own where the guy and girl see each other across the room and give each other that look because, for me, that feels like a dream more elusive than a Hogwarts letter or a wardrobe to Narnia.  That part of me watches friends and relatives meet and marry their intended with what seems to be about the same amount of challenge (and time) as deciding which cereal to buy at Walmart.  That part of me just hurts.  That part of me feels lonely and scared and insecure and lost.  That part of me attends weddings and receptions and smiles and dances but mostly just feels horribly behind.  It's all I can do not to end up in this awful cycle of "what am I doing wrong?!" through to "nothing!  Everyone is stupid" followed by "no, you just haven't met the right one yet" to "I don't even want to meet anyone!  I don't care any more". . . over and over.  It's a perpetual battle against insecurity.

I don't know why I'm sharing this.  I feel like most of the time I think about my dating life I'm putting on a public face of great defiance and not caring.  Truthfully, most of the time I'm fine.  Most of the time I'm happy.  I'd even say that about 90% of the time, I've decided and honestly feel that if I never get married and have a family that is just perfect, and if life goes the other way, then that could be pretty great too.  Whatever.  All is just fine in my corner of Zion.  But that other 10%?  That other 10% is much more nuanced.  That other 10% is just exhausted, and feels like screaming at the thought of yet another first date, blind date, set up, whatever.  That other part wants to tell everyone who says I'm beautiful and "it will happen": "YES.  But what if it DOESN'T?!  What if I don't even WANT IT TO?!"  That part of me is, quite frankly, trying really hard not to be angry at the universe for the awful tease of the last few months and wants to go on a permanent hiatus from all things even closely resembling romance.

So that's where I am.  On a hiatus where, for the time being, I'm going to be just a little bit bitter and frustrated and then, hopefully, return back to that 90% happy place.  Theater helps.  The prospect of travel helps.  My cat helps.  Spring is coming and flowers are starting to bloom and soon everything will be a "puddle wonderful" again.

For Grandpa

When I think of my Grandpa, I think about Captain Von Trapp.

Now, I have to pause for a moment here, because if I know my Grandpa at all, he might take slight umbrage at this.  "Austrians don't like that movie," he would say.

"I know, Grandpa." I would reply.  "But I'm not Austrian.  You aren't Austrian."

I'd have to pause for a second there and acknowledge that if I can consider myself homesick for England, then Grandpa has every right (and probably more) to consider himself an honorary Austrian. But I digress.  (Stay with me, Grandpa.)

The Captain Von Trapp of movie creation also has a great love of Austria.  He loves his country fiercely and determinedly.  My grandpa was an intense patriot.  He spoke often of his love for America.  He studied history with great fervor, particularly the founding fathers and World War II.  He was obsessed with the Golden Age of America - the time when war was unifying and not divisive, when sacrifice was honorable and people truly believed that being an American meant something grand.  My earliest memories of Grandpa revolve almost entirely around history lessons and model airplanes, often smaller versions of planes used in the great wars.  He was always invested in wanting America to be the country envisioned by Washington, Adams, and Jefferson.  (I should also mention here that this was written on December 7th - the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.  Yes, Grandpa - I remembered.)

In addition to his love of America, my grandpa had an intense love of Germans.  I think he felt more companionship with Germans than he did with Americans sometimes - the Germans understood him.  German culture values intense discussion and debate (two things of which my grandpa was very fond.)  They value conviction and boldness in opinion (something Grandpa was never short on.)  Walking through his house is an homage to his kinship with Germany and Austria.  Gifts from beloved friends who were as loyal to him as he was to them fill the walls and shelves.  Every time I visited, I would hear him Skyping with his German and Austrian friends.  Austria was a country that shaped him, molded him, and filled him with love.

Captain Von Trapp was a character of stern exterior but very soft interior.  As a child, my grandpa's deep and booming voice was grand to the point of being almost untouchable.  To hear him speak was to feel as though you were in the presence of a giant.  As I got older, I was let into grandpa's world a bit more, and I realized that underneath his often brazen exterior lay the heart of a poet.  Like the fictional Captain, my grandpa had a deep love of music and romance.  When I think about my grandparents' house, I think of jazz.  My education in Sinatra, Como, Cole, and so many others began in their home in the hills of Ogden.

I also think of Grandpa's great love for his wife.  I asked Grandpa once how he met grandma.  He told me that they met at a dance, and he was impressed by her because she danced so close to him.  He would go on to write numerous poems about her - his beloved "little Margie".  This calls to another connection to the Captain - just as the Captain was heartbroken and fundamentally changed after the death of his first wife, my grandpa was completely broken after the death of his sweet wife.  It was hard to see.  This great, resilient man talked with me in his office just weeks ago about how heartsick he was.  He let me hug him while he cried over his intense loneliness.  He simply did not have the will to live without his companion by his side.

This picture was taken by my sister last June. 

I think the greatest lesson that Grandpa taught me was the value of intense love.  My grandpa was a flawed man in many ways - sometimes his convictions and determination would get in the way of his ability to just care for a person who needed it - but when my grandpa did choose to love something, he loved it completely.  The heartbreak he experienced was terrible, but bespoke of something beautiful too - the love he had for my grandma is the kind of love I want to have for my spouse someday.  They were, like the Captain and Maria, very different in outward personality, but the love they shared for one another was transcendent and holy to me.  To think of them without each other is impossible.  They lived life side by side, usually holding hands.  This deep love was shown to me before grandma died years ago after a back surgery left her immobile.  Grandpa watched her try to eat her peaches with a shaking spoon and tenderly took the spoon from her hands and said, "Margie, you have served me for many years.  It is time for me to serve you."

I will miss the way my grandpa smelled.  I'll miss his slow, deep laugh.  I'll miss his birthday calls and his harmonica.  I'll miss his earnest desire to teach and to share.  I'll miss his great bear hugs.  I will miss hearing him tell me that I am beautiful.  I will miss hearing his praise for and confidence in me.  The last time we spoke, he told me that he thought I was the greatest writer he'd ever read.  I think he was probably biased, but my grandpa did not give out compliments lightly.  It meant the world to me.  Imagining life without our stalwart patriarch in it is strange and empty.  There is a hole that he has left that will never quite be filled.

The last gift grandpa gave me was a music box.  It is a small box that he purchased for Grandma on their mission in Austria.  It plays, what else, but "Edelweiss" - a simple, sweet melody that strikes at the heart of who my grandpa really was - my Captain.

I love you, Grandpa.

For Grandma

Of my grandparents, my dad’s parents had the less kid-friendly house by far.  They didn’t have cable or toys or Disney movies like my mom’s parents did.  Grandma Newman’s house was the kind of place that was full of discussion and politics and good posture.  It smelled and felt classy.  I remember sneaking into my grandpa’s upstairs office and creeping around it like it was the west wing in the Beast’s mansion.  There was an enormous desk and bookshelves and it felt like (and probably was) forbidden territory.  It was clear to me from a young age that my grandparents' house was a fancy place where you treated things carefully.

My grandma did what she could to make us feel welcome.  While the adults would talk politics, she would sit on the floor with the kids and play cards.  She taught me Old Maid and played endless rounds of Go Fish and Rummy and War and any number of other games I can’t remember the names of anymore.  She was a master of cards, and a master of making sure that everyone, everyone, felt welcome in her house.

She was an intensely spiritual woman, who spoke openly and often of her love of Christ.  Most of the gifts I ever received from her were linked in some way to developing my spirit - music and books and tools to surround myself with and to grow with.  There are two exceptions that I can think of: 

The first was a book.  When I turned nine, she sent me the first beautiful book I ever owned.  It was a large, faux-leather bound book with perforated pages that smelled delicious.  It was a copy of Heidi, along with a card telling me that it had been one of her favorite books as a child and she hoped that I would like it too.  I did.  I devoured that story over and over again until milk from a bowl and a hunk of bread and cheese were my preferred lunch option.  It was the book that got me going to the bookstore.  I wanted more pretty books.  I didn’t want just any copy of Little Women - I wanted the beautiful hardback version with the ribbon and the soft fabric on the cover.  I've often thought that when you share a favorite book with someone else, you're sharing a piece of your soul with them.  I think I took good care of that piece.

The second gift was a quilt.  Last year, she gave each of her seven grandchildren a hand-made quilt.  She’d never quilted before, but she wanted to learn how.  She called each of us and asked what our favorite color was (but wouldn’t tell us why she wanted to know), and spent hundreds of hours sewing and tying these quilts.  She even enlisted the help of my grandpa, to the surprise of everyone, who, so I’m told, was obsessed with making sure the quilts were perfectly square.  She wrote each of us a letter to tell us what she thought about as she made the quilts for us, and shared her love of the gospel, as she always did.  I think it’s one of the most beautiful quilts I’ve ever seen.  It isn’t the most technically intricate, but it was infused with hundreds of hours of love and care.

My grandma had a hiccup that was loud enough that everyone in the house could hear it. 

She had a laugh that lit up her entire face and shook her whole body with mirth.  It wrinkled her nose and her eyes and left her breathless if you really got her.

She had an impeccable sense of fashion.  She took great care of herself.  I never saw her without her toes painted and her hair done. 

She was an incredible cook.  The only thing she didn’t really trust herself to make was pie.  The last time I saw her, I taught her how to make a lattice crust top for an apple pie.  The pie tasted absolutely amazing (thank goodness).  She followed me around for every single step of the pie, studying carefully so that we could make them again this Thanksgiving.  (I promised we’d make more than one for Thanksgiving.  I'm really sorry she's going to miss out.)

I will never forget her courage.  The day of her son’s funeral, she and my grandpa announced that they were going to serve a mission for the church.  They’d been called to go to Austria.  My grandfather spoke German - my grandma didn’t.  Now, only a few short months after the tragic death of her son, she was going off to a foreign land far away from the comforts of home and family to serve the church and the Lord she loved so much.  It was so telling to me that in this time of grief, she looked outward.  She always looked outward. 

The only time she ever got mad at me that I remember was the last time I went to see her.  Grandpa covertly asked me to vacuum the guest rooms before I left because it tired grandma to do the job, so I did.  As soon as she heard me vacuuming, she came hustling in to the room.  

“You stop that!” she said.  

I shrugged.  “Sorry, grandma.  I have my orders.”

“You stop that!” she said again.  

I ignored her.  She wasn’t happy.  So she insisted instead that she make me a hot breakfast before I drove back home.  It was so typical.  She couldn’t let any act of service go un-served. 

I’ve never seen her more beautiful than when I sat down the row from her in the temple the day my brother was endowed.  Dressed all in white, she simply radiated light.  It was all I could do not to spend the service just staring in awe at how lovely she was.  

My grandma made everyone feel loved and wanted.  You can tell just by looking at her picture that she was pleasant and happy.  People who never met her see her face and know right away what kind of person she was. 

She loved her flowers.  Even after she moved to the desert of St. George, she took care to plant whatever she could that would grow.  Her yard always looked lovely.

She loved her Yorkies.  She bemoaned that her dog Lexie would listen to grandpa but not to her, but she loved the little butterfly of a dog anyway. 

I remember the tears of joy on her face when she watched my dad run his first marathon.  I remember her anxiety while he was still running.  She was worried about how he was doing and nervous to see him finish.  She kept talking about how nervous she was and trying to see him through the crowd, which was hard, because she wasn't an extraordinarily tall woman.

I remember watching a Gilmore Girls re-run at her house once.  It was the episode where Richard has retired and Emily is freaking out because she isn’t used to being followed around by her husband all day.  Grandma laughed the entire episode, remembering how hard it had been for her to adjust to grandpa’s retirement when he first retired.

I remember watching her and grandpa hold hands.  I loved seeing the pride and love on her face when she showed me the roses he bought her for their anniversary, or the cutting board he’d given her another time.  She loved my grandpa fiercely and unconditionally.  

She probably wasn't perfect, but if you asked me to name one of her faults, I couldn't do it.

I think it somewhat fitting that she died before she was too old to take care of other people.  It would have been so miserable for her to not be able to help people around her.  She epitomized the words of the hymn “Have I Done Any Good” - she did good in the world every day.  She helped those in need, she cheered them, she lightened burdens, she always approached life with an attitude of doing more.  She saw chances and opportunities to help all around her, and she did something about it.  She lived a difficult life at times, but she filled it with hope and with love and with confidence in the Lord.  I will miss her terribly.  I will miss her cooking this Thanksgiving.  I will miss her laughter.  I will miss her sweet singing and unconditional love and confidence in me. 

I can’t be depressed - she’d think I was being ridiculous if I were.  She is in a place where she is surrounded by like-minded people.  She is working hard doing what she always did in this life and spreading the love of Christ wherever she goes.  She is happy.  Like Paul, she finished her course.  She fought her fight, and now there is peace for me (and for her) in her righteous doing.  I am so proud of her.

I love you, Grandma.  

Blowing the minds of a group of four-year-olds.

I teach four year olds at church right now. It's a bit exhausting, truth be told. I prefer working with older kids and significantly fewer snot bubbles. (Not no snot bubbles. I can be reasonable. But fewer.)  I've always found babies and toddlers cute in an "I'm really glad I can hand them back to their parents" sort of way. I love working with teenagers. I tolerate working with children. It's been a bit of a challenge this time around, especially since I'm new to the area and got swept into working with kids before I really got the chance to know anyone which stinks, and I really liked the adult meetings the three weeks I was able to go to them. Sigh.

But it does come with the occasional perk, because as happy as I am that those kids aren't my full time responsibility, every so often they are so freakishly delightful or funny that I can't help but want to scoop them up and laugh at them. (Yup.  At them.  Man, it's such a mercy to the world that I'm not a parent right now. . .)

Yesterday was one of those days. The plan was a lesson on the Holy Ghost. I started by talking about comfort objects like blankets or people that take care of you like parents and teachers and then asked what they would do if they didn't have their blankets or teddy bears or parents around and they were feeling sad or scared or sick or needed help as a way of prepping them for the serious magic that is the Holy Ghost. "He helps you to feel happy, he helps you when you forget things, he helps you stay out of danger - He's the best! I love the Holy Ghost!" I said enthusiastically.

"So he's a nice ghost?" they asked.

"Well, he's not really a ghost like in the movies. He's a spirit. Sometimes people call him the Holy Spirit instead."

(Clearly this has not cleared up anything.)

"A spirit is someone that doesn't have a body. Isn't that cool?!  The Holy Ghost doesn't have a body, so he can help everyone all at the same time!"

". . . does he have a belly?"

"No, he's a spirit. He doesn't need to eat."

". . . does he have a nose?!!"

"Nope. He doesn't have a nose, because he doesn't have a body. But remember, He can make us feel so good! - "

"- That's FREAKY!"

Freaky. Exact wording. These poor kids. I can only imagine:

"What did you learn today in Primary, Timmy?"

"THE HOLY GHOST IS SCARY, WHY DO YOU MAKE ME GO TO THAT CLASS."

And that, dear friends, is what they talked about during all of coloring time. "But how can you see if you don't have eyes?! Or walk if you don't have feet?!"

Four year old minds: blown.

Conflict

Many years ago, my grandpa was serving an LDS mission in England.  Near the end of his mission he was hoping to spend some time touring Europe before heading home.  This was the 1950s, after all - travel to Europe was more rare and time consuming.  So my resourceful Grandpa came up with a plan.  He went to his superiors and asked for permission to fly home instead of taking the boat.  He offered to pay the difference in ticket price, but was turned down.  No missionaries flew home at this point.  It just wasn't the way things were done.  Making an exception for my grandpa seemed, perhaps, unfair to everyone else.  I don't know.  Regardless - it was a circumstance under which he could legitimately have decided to whine and complain.  He came up with a solution, didn't he?  What difference did it make?

Not my grandpa.

Grandpa is waaaay too resourceful and smart for that.  So he called the airline company and explained the situation.  There were hundreds of missionaries all over the world in a relatively predictable rotation of traveling.  If the company would consider it, they could cut the church a deal on ticket prices and get a steady stream of commercial travelers crossing both sides of the Atlantic and Pacific.  The company apparently thought this was an awesome deal and the end result was my grandpa getting his tour of Europe and being among the first missionaries to fly home.

Decades later, my mom found out that the high school drama competition line up for the year included a musical theater group doing songs from The Book of Mormon musical.  The musical itself is hotly debated among the LDS community, some saying that it's crass but more or less complimentary and the others saying that no amount of compliment can cover the overt mocking of things that the LDS community holds sacred.

My mom could have emailed the school or called the school or stormed into the school in offense, demanding that the mentor for the group pick a different musical.

Instead she called and asked if she could come in and talk with them about what Mormons really believe.  She went in and answered questions, shared her testimony, and left.  The group still performed, my mom didn't protest or whine or say anything else about it.

A few years later, my sister ends up in a class where the teacher shows a movie that makes her uncomfortable on one of the first days of class.  My parents discussed their concerns with the school, pulled my sister from the class, and moved on with life.

These stories have been pretty striking in my mind recently.

I used to believe that when you were an adult you were blessed with rational, mature behavior.  The ability to discuss conflict, to let things go, to approach disagreement with kindness and the assumption that those who see things differently than you do must have good reasons for doing so.  For acknowledging natural consequences for actions.  I have, of course, since learned that adults by age are not always adults by behavior, and that high school drama doesn't get left behind by graduation.

So excuse the humblebrag for a second, but today I am crazy happy and grateful to have been given so many examples of rational problem solving.  No need to hunt down the other side and continually vilify them.  Maybe I've been watching too much of the news lately.  Maybe it's that teaching is sometimes not only a thankless job but an utterly infuriating one.  Maybe I'm just tired to the point of being more irritated than normal by what I perceive to be irrational behavior.  Whatever the inspiration - I'm glad that I was given examples of individuals who don't back down, but instead find positive and even constructive ways to deal with conflict.  I'm sure there are people who think I'm a complete hypocrite for promoting myself as a mature or rational creature, and there are times when I'm not, but at least I have positive examples in my life to emulate.  Thank goodness for that.

"Hey, Sexy!", 50 Shades, Leggings, and why I am a feminist.

"Hey, Sexy!"

I was picking something up at the mall after work.  It was winter so I was wearing a coat and scarf and long pants - skinny style khakis, but not crazy skinny.  Aside from wearing a hat, I was as covered proportionally skin wise as anyone could expect a person to be in the Middle East, much less Orem, Utah.  I was putting my purchase and purse in the car when a middle-aged man driving by leaned out his opened window and cat called at me.  "Heeeeey, sexy!" he cooed, clearly entertained.

50 Shades

I was standing in line at Ulta and saw a display for Fifty Shades of Grey inspired nail polish.  There are shades named things like "Romantically Involved" and "My Silk Tie", and the more disturbing "Dark Side of the Mood", "Shine For Me" and "Cement the Deal".  Apparently bondage and dominance and sadism and masochism are glamorous now.

Leggings

My facebook feed has been full of articles on leggings lately.  Apparently leggings (aka. yoga pants sometimes) are the latest hot button topic when it comes to what women should do with their clothing choices.  "They're too tight and too inappropriate in public," says one side.  "Just wear them at home!  In public they are an inappropriate temptation."

"Who cares about my clothing choices?!" says the other side.  "They're comfortable, and they're good for working out, and you should care more about your own clothes than you do mine."


Feminism

Growing up I had an aversion to the idea of feminism.  Culturally, it was the world I was raised in.  A world that told me that, while wanting women to vote was a good thing and equal pay was alright, in general we wanted women to raise children and men to work, and that was the right way to go.  That men and women were equal already and anyone still pursuing the movement were bra-burning nuts who were beating a dead horse and just making a fuss.

Now, to be clear, I don't ever remember anyone in my childhood demonstrating anything that would make me believe otherwise.  My father and mother are amazing examples of mutual love and respect. My grandparents and aunts and uncles are kind and generous to each other.  I think that because I was raised around such wonderful people, I believed that everyone was that lucky.  That I would spend my life treated that way, that my friends would too, and that was the beautiful post 80s world that I lived in.

Then, of course, things didn't turn out all Mrs. Cleaver for me.  I haven't really dated in ages.  (I haven't enjoyed dating, maybe, ever.)  I found a job that I love.  (That I don't want to give up.)  I found myself in that awkward older single life that used to be really unique but is growing in popularity.  (CNN says that five years ago, 43% of the population over 18 in the US was single.)

Being in that world shakes up the expected status quo a bit, and I started noticing some things that bothered me that I hadn't seen before:

1. Twilight culture: A story based on a girl who literally cannot function without her undead boyfriend.  I love a good Disney story as much as anyone else, and I'm not without twitterpated feels over gallant men saving their pretty women when they really need saving - but something about this Twilight thing felt different.  Those damsel in distress stories were often set in a time when women couldn't save themselves entirely.  But the 21st Century?  Really?  And people liked it?

2. A few years ago a student at BYU left a rather passive aggressive note to another student chiding her for wearing clothing that he deemed as having a "negative effect" on men.  The whole thing felt sour to me.  In the time it took for that boy to notice the girl, get attracted to her, and then get mad at her for being attracted to her enough to write her a note, leave it with her, and walk away - he could have just moved on.  She later posted a picture of what she was wearing.  It was cute.  She looked nice.  She didn't look (what I would deem) sexy or alluring or inappropriate.  I've worn things like that to teach in.

3. I started hearing stories of friends who would go jogging on bike trails by the University taking mace or pepper spray with them.  I found out that between 2011 and 2012, instances of rape in Utah went up by 44%.  I thought about all the times I would walk home from class with my keys in my fist, ready to hit at anyone who tried anything on me, tucking my ponytail into a hat or scarf because having long hair alone made me more vulnerable.  Realized that at a University that should, arguably, be one of the safest in the world, I was still scared.

And then the 50 Shades.  And the leggings.  And the cat-calling.

So this is why I'm a feminist. 

I'm a feminist because being cat-called out of a car or in the store or anywhere at all by a random person is not flattering or kind or appropriate.

I'm a feminist because I don't want my sister or my niece or my students or any of the girls I know to think for one second that the only way they are going to get a man is by allowing him to hurt them, physically, mentally, or emotionally.  I don't want them to feel afraid that if they don't let the man do what he wants, he will be less of a man.  I want them to be brave enough to say "No, I don't want that" whether the "that" is a date they aren't interested in, a kiss they don't want, a cereal they don't like, or something much worse.

I'm a feminist because I have respect for the choices of others.  If a person wants to work, stay at home, have ten children, have two children, marry, not marry,  wear pajama pants to Walmart, wear a Speedo to Walmart, wear a suit and top hat to Walmart, wear a ballgown to Walmart - doggonit it is their business.  It is a choice between them and God and if I try and throw myself into that conversation, then I am the one who needs to check my thinking.

I'm a feminist because I believe that in being strong, I help elevate everyone.  I teach boys that strong women are not intimidating or scary, they are interesting.  They are exciting.  They are helpful.  They help lift the burden so often placed on men to be responsible for everything.  They want men to feel welcome in spheres that they were practically banned from a century ago.  Because when women are strong, and men are strong, those strengths do not cancel each other out or forbid each other, they elevate.

I'm a feminist because I was raised to believe that I have divine nature, individual worth, choices that I am accountable for, the responsibility to do good works, to have integrity, faith, (and virtue - thought that was technically added after my time.  But whatever.  It's still good.)

I'm a feminist because although my world may not be all that horribly oppressive (I may get cat called but I can vote and I own my own house and have sole control of the remote and everything!) there are women in the world who are not as blessed as I am.  Women who have no rights, are abused, are abandoned, are mistreated.  It is my responsibility to help make the world better for them.  They are my sisters.

I'm a feminist because I am a human being who believes that all human beings, regardless of gender, deserve to be treated with dignity.  Which means, really, that the term feminist is only half accurate.  What it really means is humanist.  Or personist.  Or justtreateveryonekindlydoggonitist.  Whatever word you want to put there so that you can get the image of bra burning out of your head because I am not burning a bra of mine any time soon.

Oh - and to that guy who cat called at me tonight?

Where I've Been, Content vs. Encouragement

Looking back at my blog this year I realize that I've done very little writing of consequence.  Even more strangely, I've realized that I wrote a heck of a lot more during the worst part of my year than I did when things actually started going well.  Some of that may be because while I have had a wealth (a wealth) of things to write about, I haven't felt quite ready to.  Or the parties involved other than myself deserve more courtesy than my writing about "the things" in a forum even as semi-(barely) public as this one is.

So I'll confess to being at a bit of a strange crossroads where I find myself with plenty of things I could write about but debating one what to pick and how to go about it.  Some ideas (writing about the quilt my grandma made me, for example) are safe and standard and will probably happen when I feel up to it.  Some are topics that feel already beaten to death in this venue even if there have been new developments in recent months (re: I started taking anti-depressants).  I could write about (and probably will) the saga of my new home-ownership life.  And then there are the things I would desperately like to write about but don't really feel like I should.  What's a girl to do?!

I'll start with something more journalistic, then.  My life, for the time being, needs to settle a bit before I can pick it apart again.

I recently finished teaching The Great Gatsby to one of my classes.  It's a book I'm still learning how to teach - it's a tricky one in part because of the molasses-in-winter writing chewiness but even more so because there are so few people in the story that you don't want to throw out a window by the time all the damage is done.  I persist in teaching it because it fits so well with the curriculum, but also because I'm a bit sadistic and think it's important to expose my coddled, conservative little crew to find value in things that aren't sugar coated.  Gatsby is a book I have to dare my students to love.  Every year I teach it I seem to catch a few more people with it.

One of the reasons I continue teaching the book even though it isn't universally popular is because, without fail, it brings about strong emotion.  I love books that spur passionate response - either positive or negative.  Usually I do my best to step back and allow students to feel those emotions with whatever strength they want.  I tell them, and I mean it, that I really don't care if they like something, but if they learn from it.  (With a book like Gatsby I add that if they leave the book wanting to be like any of the characters, that's when I'm a bit worried.)

Every once in a while I do feel like I need to step in - particularly when that passion is misguided in one way or another.  This time around it's a handful of students appalled with me for assigning such a book because of the way it "condones adultery and alcoholism" and a number of other vices presented in Gatsby.  I nearly grabbed the copies of the books these students had been reading to see if they'd managed to find some strange copy that ended differently than mine had.  Considering that characters involved in said bad behavior end up either dead or thoroughly disgusted by what's happened, I decided it was time to intervene.

There's this phenomenon in conservative culture that often suggests where media is concerned that including "content" (re: immoral behavior in one form or another) means an automatic condoning of said "content".  For example, I recently stumbled on a Facebook post a friend had commented on where the original writer went on a tirade about the recent release of Into the Woods and warned parents everywhere about how sin-filled it is because of adultery and suicide and other things that the writer found objectionable for children to be exposed to.  The writer didn't feel the need to include any information about how the moment of adultery in the story is almost immediately regretted (and some would interpret rather thoroughly punished as well), and that the "suicide" in question is non-existent in the movie and really more of an accident induced by mental illness than anything.  The writer also leaves out the lessons Into the Woods offers about overcoming challenges and being careful about what you wish for and the power of story.  No no - including the content was the same as condoning it, even though anyone who has seen Into the Woods should know otherwise.

That in mind, Into the Woods is more moral than other shows that no one complains about.  Say, Hello Dolly!, which is all about guys seducing and lying to girls just to get a kiss.  And the guys get that kiss and never (so far as we know) get punished for their deception.  They actually get rewarded for it (they get promoted!)  Or what about Aladdin?  Boy lies to get a girl and even after the girl finds out the truth, he gets her.  The lie is rewarded.  Don't get me started on Phantom of the Opera.

The point, then, is that we've got to stop teaching what Dumbledore would call "fear of a name".  The world adultery or sex or violence or slander or whatever other word you want to pick taken out of context means nothing - just some squiggles on a page or screen.  When we teach or encourage fear of something without understanding what it is, we risk lying about what something really promotes or encourages.  Imagine, for example, how easy it would be to list all the awful "content" options in Les Miserables - prostitution and deception, thievery and suicide - it's full of any number of sins.  It's not until you take into context the reason behind each action that you realize that the actions aren't necessarily condoned, but they do need to be understood.

So, dear students, feel free to hate me for giving you Lord of the Flies, or Animal Farm, or The Great Gatsby.  I'm #sorrynotsorry if they make you uncomfortable, mainly because they should make you uncomfortable.  But don't think they're making you uncomfortable because they are condoning what's going on.  Far from it.  You can learn from tragedy.  (The vast majority of you do so every time you read The Book of Mormon, after all, which skips over all the years of happiness.)

The Flag

Our school had a flag changing ceremony outside today in honor of 9/11.  While I watched, several postcards of images came to mind.

Algebra

One was me in my Algebra class, hearing rumors.  "A plane hit the World Trade Center."  "The World Trade Center was bombed."  "A plane accidentally hit the World Trade Center!"

The what?  I hadn't ever been to New York.  Hadn't ever paid enough attention to business or architecture to really understand what that meant.  Not wanting to appear ignorant, I talked about it along with everyone else in hushed tones.

After we said The Pledge, our teacher turned on the news.  I think he had it on mute.  I remember watching moments after he turned on the TV as a second plane flew into the second tower.

The rest of the day was a blur of watching the planes hit the towers on a repeated reel over and over and over again.  The school was buzzing with conversation.  Looking back, I remember feeling sick over the whole thing but not really understanding why.  Maybe it was my American confidence stepping in and assuring me that, in the end, none of this would matter because we would "win".  Whatever that meant.


Paris

After a few months in England, my friend Liz and I were exploring Paris.  While the rest of her family was at Disneyland Paris, we were determined to continue our cultural exploration no matter our youth or inexperience or the language barrier.  Liz with her virtually nonexistent French and me with my long ago two years of meagerly attempted high school French roamed streets without a map in search of art museums and churches.  We came across the US Embassy.  Perhaps it was the lack of hearing much English that day (which always makes me feel terribly claustrophobic and crippled), but I've never been so happy to see a piece of fabric in my life.


Schoolhouse

For several years I spent my summer playing make believe.  Dressed in period clothing, I would go sit in the school house of a local museum designed to teach about country life during the late 1800s.  Some were assigned to houses or stores and had people to socialize with.  I was the schoolmarm, left to my own devices until the replacement volunteer came along.  I didn't mind.  Armed with knowledge gleaned from years of obsession over Anne of Green Gables and Little House on the Prairie, I knew my duties.  The schoolhouse was set outside of the main part of town and, as a result, often forgotten by tourists.  As a result, I would regularly be left for hours without any connection to humans, but I would still carefully go about my responsibilities.  I would open each window in the hopes of a nice breeze.  I would sweep the floor and brush away cobwebs.  I would make sure that the slates were neatly stacked and the books organized by grade and the slate pencils put away.  Often I would write my name on the board.  (Often I would write "Ann" just so I could add the "e".)

The task I remember most was that of raising and lowering the flag outside the school at the beginning and end of each shift.  There was something peaceful about this task.

This is what I thought about most this morning.  I watched a group of scouts professionally and carefully raise the flag and felt a bit jealous.  Every year this task is carried out by boys.  My feminist heart protested, and remembered the way I would carry the flag outside each day and raise it alone, taking great care to make sure that it didn't touch the ground.  Later, I would lower it and fold it as well as I could by myself.  It wasn't as professional or formal as the ceremony today, but the reverence of doing this by myself felt important.