We put up our Christmas tree last night. I can’t remember ever doing that in November, but Thanksgiving was late this month and the timing just seemed right. We had cut it down at a tree farm in Petaluma on Saturday, one of our favorite family traditions. Every year, we bundle up, load the dog or dogs into the van and head north. Usually, we spend the better part of an hour picking out just the right conifer, but it was cold and windy, so we voted to choose quickly. Fortunately, we had arrived on the first weekend the farm was open for business, so the selection was better than usual. Pat found this year’s winner, and it is one of the jolliest and fattest trees our house has known.
I got to thinking, and realized that cutting down a Christmas tree is one of my first childhood memories. I can still feel my father’s Pendleton-clad arms around me, helping me to work the big saw. In those days, you provided your own cutting tool at the tree farm, and ours was a well-used crosscut saw from my dad’s workshop. It’s slow business cutting down a tree when you’re only four or five, but we eventually completed the task, with just enough time to yell “TIMBER!” before the mighty conifer crashed to the forest floor.
Each time I put up our family tree in its convenient self-leveling stand, I think back to how it used to be. My father would cut a slice off the bottom of the trunk and attach the stand. First, three long and rusty eye-bolts would have to be unscrewed all the way, and then screwed back into the trunk. This was finger-cramping work. Then the tree would be put upright and the fun would begin. The only way to level the tree was to unscrew the bolt or bolts on one side, just a little bit, and then screw in the opposing ones the same amount. Naturally, this trial-and-error method meant that the tree was now leaning either too far the other way, or in an entirely new direction altogether. A more inexact method could not be found, apparently. Over time, and as my brother and I took over this seasonal chore, we got pretty good at it. Especially given the trees we sometimes had to work with.
That’s because it was decided at some point that, while we could certainly afford to buy one each year, there were perfectly good trees in our own backyard, so why not use those? Now there is a distinct difference between trees that are carefully grown, watered and pruned to be the centerpiece of someone’s Christmas décor – and ours. The motley crew from which we had to pick had grown on hillsides (assuring bent trunks) or against fences (no branches on one side). Inevitably, they featured enormous and dreaded “bare spots” that had to be disguised, sometimes by drilling a hole in the trunk and stuffing a stray branch in the gap. Each provided its own challenges in the tree stand department. We became expert at giving the appearance of verticality to trees that most Societies for the Severely Crippled would have rejected as beyond hope.
Eventually, the supply of available normal-sized trees was depleted. That was when it was decided that we could cut the top off a larger tree and that would do just as well. That is how several of the twenty-foot tall evergreens in the back yard were decapitated. And if the tippy-top was too bare, we simply lopped that off, too. In those cases, the result was a tree that rose from floor to ceiling in a straight line – a veritable column of pine branches.
The Clark household became known for its unusual post-modern Christmas trees. As guests arrived at our door, they would quickly press past peremptory hugs to see what curiosity had been erected in our living room.
As much as we were oddly proud of our misshapen trees, I have now gone the other direction, in much the same way that I cannot stand to live with the kind of Danish Modern furniture that used to fill our house. I appreciate a sexy, well-shaped tree with a vertical trunk. That seems ironic, now that I have a Christmas tree stand that can level just about anything in a flash.
But perhaps this is one of those things that skips a generation. Maybe, one day, my daughter will once again revel in the kind of tree that only Charlie Brown could love. In anticipation of that possible future, I hereby bequeath to you, Jessica, my self-leveling Christmas tree stand, which cost all of forty dollars, and that has been among my most-cherished and practical possessions. You’re welcome, Sweetheart.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Turkeys and Botticelli
Thanksgiving. I hear the word and all the cliché Norman Rockwell images immediately come to mind. But they don’t match my memories at all. As the Big Holiday approaches, I have been wracking my brain, searching for cherished remembrances.
Oh, certainly, there were family gatherings on South Knoll Road, with turkey, stuffing and pie. But, set against a background of plenty that was the norm in our household, the extra food on the table was not very notable. My distinct memories of Thanksgiving as a child are 1) my brother and sister fought over the bronzed skin of the turkey, 2) I was very fond of my mother’s rice stuffing, and 3) I didn’t like pie in general, and pumpkin pie in particular, so there was little to look forward to at the end of the meal.
Celebrating Thanksgiving with our relatives meant a long drive, either to my grandmother’s house (over the river and through the woods to Fresno) or to our cousins in Southern California. Thanksgiving at Uncle Jack's big ranch-style house in Valencia was closer to that Rockwellian ideal. There were four boys in the family, enough to actually play touch football on the front lawn while waiting for the turkey to finish drying out. I also recall that, one year, I was also followed around by my littler cousin, Betsy, who apparently had a crush on me. Later she would write a letter to my mother on the subject, whimsically describing how she was sitting on her bed and asking her Magic 8 Ball whether I liked her, too.
The real issue was that I didn’t realize how grateful I should be. It’s different when you are trying to survive harsh winters in the New World. Or you have lived through the Great Depression like my parents. There was little in my life that was lacking.
That’s why one of my favorite Thanksgivings was in 1984, when I first moved to Los Angeles to pursue my Hollywood Dream. I was rehearsing a play that weekend, so couldn’t drive up to the Bay Area to be with my family and that is how I ended up a holiday orphan. Luckily, I was invited to celebrate the day at Scott Weiss's in Santa Monica.
As I arrived, bearing a fair version of my mother’s rice stuffing, I ran into Cris Santmeyer, an old college theatre friend and probably tops on my list of the Ones Who Got Away. We definitely had hit it off back at school, but never seemed to get our timing right to be mutually available at the same time. It was good to see her and we took the elevator up to Chris’s apartment.
There, we joined several of my other Marin County friends: Bruce Vieira, Scott Weiss, Deena Burke, Chris MacGregor and Robert Reneau. There were others that I either can’t recall or didn’t know. For most of us, I am sure it was our first Thanksgiving without our families.
The first discovery was that Scott had bought the turkey the day before and had simply put it in the refrigerator, heedless of the time it would need to thaw. It was still mostly frozen, but we fished out the bag of giblets, shoved it in the oven and hoped for the best. Fortunately, there were plenty of other things to eat and we dove into the chips and dips, hors d’oeuvres, stuffing, vegetables and desserts that everyone had brought. Oh, and the wine and beer. That, too.
Then we played games. Pictionary. Charades. And a unique variation of Botticelli that doesn’t seem to match anything I can find on Wikipedia. In our version, you take a quote from Shakespeare (at least 26 letters long), write it in a vertical column down the left hand side of a piece of paper. Then either to the left or right of the quote, you write the letters of the alphabet, A-Z or Z-A, thus creating 26 pairs of letters. Next you try to think of a celebrity whose name matches those initials. For example, the pairing P-P might elicit Patti Page, Pat Paulsen or Peter Pumpkineater. The goal is to come up with a name for each pair, and hopefully one that is unique. Duplicates among players cancel each other out. Unknowns are also tossed, unless cleverly defended. The player with the most unique names wins bragging rights until the next game begins.
To be a small part of such a group of lively, intelligent, well-read, creative and thoroughly silly people for an evening has always been one of my favorite things to do. I don’t remember if we ever got to the turkey and it didn’t matter, anyway. There wasn’t anywhere I would have rather been.
Now, as I have gotten older and have started to lose friends and loved ones, the meaning of Thanksgiving becomes clearer and more poignant with each passing year. I finally know what I should have been grateful for all along. My holiday prayer would be to spend just one more day with each of those people who have brought so much joy to my life.
Instead, I will celebrate with the ones who are near and hold them extra tight, so the memory will leave a lasting impression on my heart.
Oh, certainly, there were family gatherings on South Knoll Road, with turkey, stuffing and pie. But, set against a background of plenty that was the norm in our household, the extra food on the table was not very notable. My distinct memories of Thanksgiving as a child are 1) my brother and sister fought over the bronzed skin of the turkey, 2) I was very fond of my mother’s rice stuffing, and 3) I didn’t like pie in general, and pumpkin pie in particular, so there was little to look forward to at the end of the meal.
Celebrating Thanksgiving with our relatives meant a long drive, either to my grandmother’s house (over the river and through the woods to Fresno) or to our cousins in Southern California. Thanksgiving at Uncle Jack's big ranch-style house in Valencia was closer to that Rockwellian ideal. There were four boys in the family, enough to actually play touch football on the front lawn while waiting for the turkey to finish drying out. I also recall that, one year, I was also followed around by my littler cousin, Betsy, who apparently had a crush on me. Later she would write a letter to my mother on the subject, whimsically describing how she was sitting on her bed and asking her Magic 8 Ball whether I liked her, too.
The real issue was that I didn’t realize how grateful I should be. It’s different when you are trying to survive harsh winters in the New World. Or you have lived through the Great Depression like my parents. There was little in my life that was lacking.
That’s why one of my favorite Thanksgivings was in 1984, when I first moved to Los Angeles to pursue my Hollywood Dream. I was rehearsing a play that weekend, so couldn’t drive up to the Bay Area to be with my family and that is how I ended up a holiday orphan. Luckily, I was invited to celebrate the day at Scott Weiss's in Santa Monica.
As I arrived, bearing a fair version of my mother’s rice stuffing, I ran into Cris Santmeyer, an old college theatre friend and probably tops on my list of the Ones Who Got Away. We definitely had hit it off back at school, but never seemed to get our timing right to be mutually available at the same time. It was good to see her and we took the elevator up to Chris’s apartment.
There, we joined several of my other Marin County friends: Bruce Vieira, Scott Weiss, Deena Burke, Chris MacGregor and Robert Reneau. There were others that I either can’t recall or didn’t know. For most of us, I am sure it was our first Thanksgiving without our families.
The first discovery was that Scott had bought the turkey the day before and had simply put it in the refrigerator, heedless of the time it would need to thaw. It was still mostly frozen, but we fished out the bag of giblets, shoved it in the oven and hoped for the best. Fortunately, there were plenty of other things to eat and we dove into the chips and dips, hors d’oeuvres, stuffing, vegetables and desserts that everyone had brought. Oh, and the wine and beer. That, too.
Then we played games. Pictionary. Charades. And a unique variation of Botticelli that doesn’t seem to match anything I can find on Wikipedia. In our version, you take a quote from Shakespeare (at least 26 letters long), write it in a vertical column down the left hand side of a piece of paper. Then either to the left or right of the quote, you write the letters of the alphabet, A-Z or Z-A, thus creating 26 pairs of letters. Next you try to think of a celebrity whose name matches those initials. For example, the pairing P-P might elicit Patti Page, Pat Paulsen or Peter Pumpkineater. The goal is to come up with a name for each pair, and hopefully one that is unique. Duplicates among players cancel each other out. Unknowns are also tossed, unless cleverly defended. The player with the most unique names wins bragging rights until the next game begins.
To be a small part of such a group of lively, intelligent, well-read, creative and thoroughly silly people for an evening has always been one of my favorite things to do. I don’t remember if we ever got to the turkey and it didn’t matter, anyway. There wasn’t anywhere I would have rather been.
Now, as I have gotten older and have started to lose friends and loved ones, the meaning of Thanksgiving becomes clearer and more poignant with each passing year. I finally know what I should have been grateful for all along. My holiday prayer would be to spend just one more day with each of those people who have brought so much joy to my life.
Instead, I will celebrate with the ones who are near and hold them extra tight, so the memory will leave a lasting impression on my heart.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Phone Calls and Pink Slips
“So, do you still have a job?” For six years, that was the cheery opening to nearly every phone conversation I had with my mother, who would have celebrated her 90th birthday two weeks ago.
After bouncing out of college teaching in 1996, I had taken a position with Broderbund Software in Novato. It was a pretty big change for me, but I slotted in well, first as an administrative assistant, then as a dealer sales representative.
Unfortunately, we were the victim of a hostile takeover by The Learning Company in 1998, but I was kept on, moving first into public relations, then into managing our trade shows. A couple of years later, The Learning Company was sold to Mattel for 3.8 billion dollars and, less than a year after that, was literally given away for no money to a holding company, Gores Technology Group. We had experienced the largest U.S. corporate failure in history, until Enron claimed that dubious title. We were eventually re-sold, this time to an Irish company, Riverdeep, and I became a senior brand manager in the Educational Software Division.
Five companies in seven and a half years. I’m not sure how many supervisors I had over that period, because I lost count at fifteen. Needless to say, our periodic layoffs were featured in the local paper, thus prompting my mother’s regular query, “So, do you still have a job?”
Having survived for so long, I was considered by most of my co-workers to be “bullet-proof” when it came to cuts. But my number finally came up in March 2003. For the first time, I had to tell my mother that I did not still have a job. From that point on, her conversation starter became, “So, have you found a job yet?” The question was always light-hearted, but there was a definite undertone of motherly concern.
Out of a desire to stay local, the better to take care of my daughter, I applied for a substitute teaching license and spent the next six months bouncing around Marin County schools, subbing everything from kindergarten to high school French. I know my mother was worried, but my family was getting by, just.
Then, on Christmas Eve 2004, we came home from church to a late phone call from my father. My mother was in hospital. She had been diagnosed with lung cancer the previous spring and concern was that it had spread to other organs. Over the next few days, the diagnosis was confirmed and she was brought home, since there was nothing the doctors could do.
It was clear that she was ready for the end. In fact, during previous doctor visits to evaluate her progress from the various strokes she had suffered over the previous three years, she had responded to questions about how she felt with a simple, “I want to die.” She had lost most of her memories, could no longer play golf, had little or no sense of taste or smell and was, clearly, done.
Because she had been a doctor, and despite her stroke, she was sharp enough to know that if she starved herself, she could die sooner and, as long as she kept hydrated, she could mitigate some of the pain. Hospice was brought in and my father took over most of the nursing and helping with day-to-day functions.
Our belated Christmas celebration was melancholy at best. Over the next few weeks, my mother deteriorated rapidly. Yet, she still occasionally asked me if I had found a job yet. Unfortunately, I hadn’t, and sub assignments were few and far between at that time of year.
Finally, I got an offer from a local charter high school, the Marin School of Arts and Technology, which was looking for a drama instructor. I jumped at the opportunity.
That afternoon, I drove to Mill Valley to tell my mother the good news. As I entered her room, I knew that something had changed. There was the characteristic smell of stale urine on the bed pad, but there was something else. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it turned my stomach in a way that I had never experienced before.
My mother was beyond frail at this point, and barely conscious. I hugged her gently and whispered into her ear that I had gotten a teaching job and that she didn’t have to worry about me anymore. Then I kissed her for what I feared would be the last time. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t wait to get out of that room. The smell of what I can only presume was death lingered in my mind for the rest of the afternoon.
The next day, I went to MSAT to sign my contract for the semester. No sooner had I inked my name than my cell phone rang. It was my father with the news that my mother had just passed away in his arms. It was barely a month after her initial diagnosis and she had been successful in her final act as a physician: hastening her own death.
Of course I can’t know if she had held on to see if I would finally find a job, or maybe I had redoubled my efforts to ease her worry, but the coincidence has stayed with me. Over the years, she was the one who always knew every detail of my life, mentor and confidante right to the end.
The teaching position didn’t turn out as I had hoped, but I moved on and continued to find my way over the next five years, ending up in, of all things, loan servicing at Tamalpais Bank.
In a curious parallel to prior events, we were taken over by the FDIC in April and bought by Union Bank, for whom I have become a “transitional employee.” For better or for worse, I am scheduled to be laid off at the end of next January and will again join the ranks of the unemployed.
I will be expecting to receive a call from my mother soon.
After bouncing out of college teaching in 1996, I had taken a position with Broderbund Software in Novato. It was a pretty big change for me, but I slotted in well, first as an administrative assistant, then as a dealer sales representative.
Unfortunately, we were the victim of a hostile takeover by The Learning Company in 1998, but I was kept on, moving first into public relations, then into managing our trade shows. A couple of years later, The Learning Company was sold to Mattel for 3.8 billion dollars and, less than a year after that, was literally given away for no money to a holding company, Gores Technology Group. We had experienced the largest U.S. corporate failure in history, until Enron claimed that dubious title. We were eventually re-sold, this time to an Irish company, Riverdeep, and I became a senior brand manager in the Educational Software Division.
Five companies in seven and a half years. I’m not sure how many supervisors I had over that period, because I lost count at fifteen. Needless to say, our periodic layoffs were featured in the local paper, thus prompting my mother’s regular query, “So, do you still have a job?”
Having survived for so long, I was considered by most of my co-workers to be “bullet-proof” when it came to cuts. But my number finally came up in March 2003. For the first time, I had to tell my mother that I did not still have a job. From that point on, her conversation starter became, “So, have you found a job yet?” The question was always light-hearted, but there was a definite undertone of motherly concern.
Out of a desire to stay local, the better to take care of my daughter, I applied for a substitute teaching license and spent the next six months bouncing around Marin County schools, subbing everything from kindergarten to high school French. I know my mother was worried, but my family was getting by, just.
Then, on Christmas Eve 2004, we came home from church to a late phone call from my father. My mother was in hospital. She had been diagnosed with lung cancer the previous spring and concern was that it had spread to other organs. Over the next few days, the diagnosis was confirmed and she was brought home, since there was nothing the doctors could do.
 |
| My father and mother at the radiation treatment center |
 |
| Final Christmas |
Finally, I got an offer from a local charter high school, the Marin School of Arts and Technology, which was looking for a drama instructor. I jumped at the opportunity.
That afternoon, I drove to Mill Valley to tell my mother the good news. As I entered her room, I knew that something had changed. There was the characteristic smell of stale urine on the bed pad, but there was something else. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it turned my stomach in a way that I had never experienced before.
My mother was beyond frail at this point, and barely conscious. I hugged her gently and whispered into her ear that I had gotten a teaching job and that she didn’t have to worry about me anymore. Then I kissed her for what I feared would be the last time. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t wait to get out of that room. The smell of what I can only presume was death lingered in my mind for the rest of the afternoon.
The next day, I went to MSAT to sign my contract for the semester. No sooner had I inked my name than my cell phone rang. It was my father with the news that my mother had just passed away in his arms. It was barely a month after her initial diagnosis and she had been successful in her final act as a physician: hastening her own death.
Of course I can’t know if she had held on to see if I would finally find a job, or maybe I had redoubled my efforts to ease her worry, but the coincidence has stayed with me. Over the years, she was the one who always knew every detail of my life, mentor and confidante right to the end.
The teaching position didn’t turn out as I had hoped, but I moved on and continued to find my way over the next five years, ending up in, of all things, loan servicing at Tamalpais Bank.
In a curious parallel to prior events, we were taken over by the FDIC in April and bought by Union Bank, for whom I have become a “transitional employee.” For better or for worse, I am scheduled to be laid off at the end of next January and will again join the ranks of the unemployed.
I will be expecting to receive a call from my mother soon.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Hills and Kennedys
For those who know me well, I am all about the bike. I ride whenever I can. I commute by bike. I follow blogs about bikes. I watch every bike race that’s televised. I go to bike races. So, how come I can’t remember my first bike? I have been looking through family albums, hoping to catch a glimpse of this primordial steed, with no success.
I vaguely recall that it was red. It had training wheels, one speed and a coaster brake. I remember learning to ride it on our sloping driveway, which was a bit tricky. I would try to balance so that I wasn’t using the training wheels, but turning that way on a hill was impossible.
I also remember the day my father took the training wheels off. We went down to Strawberry Point School, which had an enormous blacktop that was perfect for not running into anything. Riding without training wheels was surprisingly easy. I rode confidently back and forth, completely unaware of my father, who probably was biting his nails as I wobbled and weaved my way along.
I decided it was time to see what this baby could do. I got up a good head of speed and took off down the length of blacktop like a top fuel dragster. The feeling of raw power was intoxicating. At least, I assume that’s what it was, having never been intoxicated up to that point in my life. Then I fell. Hard.
I’m sure it had something to do with high-speed titanium frame shimmy, misaligned carbon forks or defective high-performance tires. Or, I suppose, there is a remote possibility that it could have been due to Operator Error. Anyway, I crashed pretty spectacularly. But my father picked me up, applied tourniquets and splints, and I was soon on my way again. Fortunately, I had my helmet on… No, wait. We didn’t wear helmets back then. I wonder why? I suppose it seemed unfair at the time to thwart natural selection with sissy safety equipment such as crash helmets for bikes and seat belts in cars.
My bike became my lifeline. In good weather, it was how I got to school. It’s how I went to the store. It’s how I went to my friends’ houses. But not without effort. Unfortunately, Strawberry is as hilly as Rome, so getting anywhere inevitably involved riding up some pretty steep hills. Recently, I measured the first ramp of South Knoll Road where it rises up from Belvedere Drive, and it came out as a 25% grade, which puts in on a par with some of the toughest climbs in the French Alps or the Italian Dolomites. Of course, we didn’t usually go straight up the hill. We weaved back and forth like drunken sailors, which was very effective, until you encountered a car. When that happened, you hoped to be at either end of a switchback, or else you had to put a foot down and walk.
The only time I ever saw a professional cyclist do that was the first year the pros raced in the now-defunct San Francisco Grand Prix. Not having reconnoitered very well, many of the teams had brought a full complement of riders, including domestiques, climbers and sprinters. The heavily-muscled sprinters were completely unprepared for the more than 28% grade of Fillmore Street between Vallejo and Broadway. After the first lap, they fell hopelessly behind. Some tried weaving up the hill, while others caught their breath while doing doughnuts on the flat intersections between ramps as the crowd cheered them on. After lap two, most of them abandoned and could be seen watching the race from sidewalk cafes in North Beach.
Back to South Knoll Road. There was a short flat section after the first hill, then you tackled the second, slightly easier grade before cresting at the Rawls’ house. Finally, you descended a short hill past the Hicks and Baronis before arriving at number 38, hopefully avoiding any cars making their way around the hairpin bend near our house.
Making it to the top was always a huge relief. I would be out of breath and sweating. I must have also been light-headed. Otherwise, how to explain my decision one afternoon to ride down the hill with my eyes closed? I don’t think I even envisioned making it to the bottom, whereupon I would triumphantly open my eyes and wave to the cheering crowd. I just wanted to see what would happen.
I do have a college degree, so there is ample evidence that I have some measurable brain activity. Just not on that particular day. I made it surprisingly far down the hill before I became one with the asphalt. Again, with no helmet, but also with no injuries beyond skinned elbows and knees. As the cartoon character Calvin says to Hobbes after another failed attempt to avoid schoolwork, “Ah, live and don’t learn, that’s us!”
After that equally failed experiment, the lure of high-speed bike crashes faded quickly, but fortunately not the appeal of bikes.
In the interest of thwarting the cruel machinations of natural selection, I have always tried to pass on sage advice to my daughter, bearer of my genetic blueprint. Thus far, she has learned:
1. Wear your seatbelt. Always.
2. Don’t date Kennedys. (They have an astonishingly bad track record.)
3. Don’t shoot at cops. (It simply draws more police to the scene.)
4. Use a coaster if you’re going to drink beer when Daddy’s not home.
5. No smoking cigars in the house.
I suppose I should add:
6. Don’t ride down steep hills on your bike with your eyes closed, unless your goal is simply to see what amazing thing will happen and you don’t mind suffering the consequences of crashing, either with or without your helmet.
I think that about covers it.
I vaguely recall that it was red. It had training wheels, one speed and a coaster brake. I remember learning to ride it on our sloping driveway, which was a bit tricky. I would try to balance so that I wasn’t using the training wheels, but turning that way on a hill was impossible.
I also remember the day my father took the training wheels off. We went down to Strawberry Point School, which had an enormous blacktop that was perfect for not running into anything. Riding without training wheels was surprisingly easy. I rode confidently back and forth, completely unaware of my father, who probably was biting his nails as I wobbled and weaved my way along.
I decided it was time to see what this baby could do. I got up a good head of speed and took off down the length of blacktop like a top fuel dragster. The feeling of raw power was intoxicating. At least, I assume that’s what it was, having never been intoxicated up to that point in my life. Then I fell. Hard.
I’m sure it had something to do with high-speed titanium frame shimmy, misaligned carbon forks or defective high-performance tires. Or, I suppose, there is a remote possibility that it could have been due to Operator Error. Anyway, I crashed pretty spectacularly. But my father picked me up, applied tourniquets and splints, and I was soon on my way again. Fortunately, I had my helmet on… No, wait. We didn’t wear helmets back then. I wonder why? I suppose it seemed unfair at the time to thwart natural selection with sissy safety equipment such as crash helmets for bikes and seat belts in cars.
My bike became my lifeline. In good weather, it was how I got to school. It’s how I went to the store. It’s how I went to my friends’ houses. But not without effort. Unfortunately, Strawberry is as hilly as Rome, so getting anywhere inevitably involved riding up some pretty steep hills. Recently, I measured the first ramp of South Knoll Road where it rises up from Belvedere Drive, and it came out as a 25% grade, which puts in on a par with some of the toughest climbs in the French Alps or the Italian Dolomites. Of course, we didn’t usually go straight up the hill. We weaved back and forth like drunken sailors, which was very effective, until you encountered a car. When that happened, you hoped to be at either end of a switchback, or else you had to put a foot down and walk.
The only time I ever saw a professional cyclist do that was the first year the pros raced in the now-defunct San Francisco Grand Prix. Not having reconnoitered very well, many of the teams had brought a full complement of riders, including domestiques, climbers and sprinters. The heavily-muscled sprinters were completely unprepared for the more than 28% grade of Fillmore Street between Vallejo and Broadway. After the first lap, they fell hopelessly behind. Some tried weaving up the hill, while others caught their breath while doing doughnuts on the flat intersections between ramps as the crowd cheered them on. After lap two, most of them abandoned and could be seen watching the race from sidewalk cafes in North Beach.
Back to South Knoll Road. There was a short flat section after the first hill, then you tackled the second, slightly easier grade before cresting at the Rawls’ house. Finally, you descended a short hill past the Hicks and Baronis before arriving at number 38, hopefully avoiding any cars making their way around the hairpin bend near our house.
Making it to the top was always a huge relief. I would be out of breath and sweating. I must have also been light-headed. Otherwise, how to explain my decision one afternoon to ride down the hill with my eyes closed? I don’t think I even envisioned making it to the bottom, whereupon I would triumphantly open my eyes and wave to the cheering crowd. I just wanted to see what would happen.
I do have a college degree, so there is ample evidence that I have some measurable brain activity. Just not on that particular day. I made it surprisingly far down the hill before I became one with the asphalt. Again, with no helmet, but also with no injuries beyond skinned elbows and knees. As the cartoon character Calvin says to Hobbes after another failed attempt to avoid schoolwork, “Ah, live and don’t learn, that’s us!”
After that equally failed experiment, the lure of high-speed bike crashes faded quickly, but fortunately not the appeal of bikes.
In the interest of thwarting the cruel machinations of natural selection, I have always tried to pass on sage advice to my daughter, bearer of my genetic blueprint. Thus far, she has learned:
1. Wear your seatbelt. Always.
2. Don’t date Kennedys. (They have an astonishingly bad track record.)
3. Don’t shoot at cops. (It simply draws more police to the scene.)
4. Use a coaster if you’re going to drink beer when Daddy’s not home.
5. No smoking cigars in the house.
I suppose I should add:
6. Don’t ride down steep hills on your bike with your eyes closed, unless your goal is simply to see what amazing thing will happen and you don’t mind suffering the consequences of crashing, either with or without your helmet.
I think that about covers it.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Loves and Marriage
This is the year my 16 year-old daughter has finally started noticing the opposite sex in a tangible way. Despite my reminding her from Day One that she was not allowed to go out with boys until her 30th birthday, she has already been on a couple of earth-shattering (at least for me) dates. “You go, girl,” says Dad through clenched teeth.
Recently, I found myself thinking back to when she was only seven and used to play with her little girl friend Marty Boughton. The two of them would push their toy baby strollers around the house and pretend that they were married to our family dog, Mr. Higgins. They made up endless stories about this odd marital arrangement, which brought forth much giggling.
But it also brings up the question of how do we, in fact, find each other? How do we choose a mate? It seems so much simpler with animals. All an elk has to do is bash his head against another elk’s antlers for a couple of hours. If his migraine doesn’t kick in before his opponent’s does, then he wins the doe who has been anxiously waiting on the sidelines. Darwinian simplicity.
It used to be that simple for me. I can remember the first girl I ever had a crush on, in kindergarten. Back then, it didn’t matter if she was attractive. It didn’t matter if she had ample bosoms and wide hips for child-bearing (thankfully she didn’t – that would’ve been too weird in a five year-old). It didn’t matter if she had a scintillating wit, boundless charm, or was positioned to inherit a small fortune in men’s support garments. Actually, I don’t recall ever talking to her. Though I did get to sit next to her one day because I had gotten into trouble (probably talking too much) and was forced, as punishment, to occupy a desk on the dreaded Girls’ Side of the class. No, I was fascinated by Becky Clark because we shared the same last name. That was it.
In first grade, my fickle gaze fell upon Lisa Britt, a pretty blonde who didn’t share my last name, but who shared my birthday instead. Kismet. We became an item. Or at least as much of an item as you can be in first grade. I even remember going over to her house once, which was significant, as it was probably the first time I had ever visited Enemy Territory. (As a side note, Lisa and I both ended up in theatre, directing plays at the College of Marin, so maybe there is something to the shared birthday thing.)
As further evidence of how clueless I was, I once asked my first grade teacher, Mrs. Weber, if she was married to the school janitor. In full-on Sherlock Holmes mode, I came to that deduction based solely on the keen observation that they both were older and had gray hair. Ergo, they must be married. With raised eyebrows and a suitably wry smile, she informed me otherwise, and I was left to contemplate the confusing world of coupling.
So, it’s no surprise that I met Pat, my current wife, in a similarly unusual fashion. Following my separation from my first wife, I was forced to move into a new home in Novato, which required my finding a roommate. Initially, I shared the house with an older man named John, who departed less than a year later. I put an ad in the paper and prepared to search again.
I met with an odd cross-section of the dregs of humanity, before coming across an intriguing possibility. She was a theatre friend, a pianist and a stunner. She surveyed the backyard carefully, explaining that she wanted to see if there was enough sunlight for her to sunbathe in the nude, one of her regular activities. As much as I appreciated her potential decorative value, I was also sadly aware that having a gorgeous woman naked in my back yard might be viewed with skepticism by potential girlfriends. Probably for the best, she decided to look elsewhere. Then I met Pat.
Like me, she was also going through a divorce and needed a place to roost. She seemed perfectly acceptable, and I promised to let her know. But as we shook hands out in the driveway, I heard a very distinct voice inside my head that said, “This is the right one. This is good.” It wasn’t the first time I had received such a missive, and I took it seriously.
A few days later, when she came back to bring her deposit, she also brought a small stuffed animal for my daughter. Not only that, she had a second stuffed animal for Marty. That should have told me something.
We entered into the housemate arrangement, slowly became friends, then good friends, then best friends, then friends with the kind of benefits you don’t get from your typical 9-5 employer. It’s funny how life works out that way. We were married three years later and celebrated our 8th anniversary last July.
Lest you think this is a fairy tale, it hasn’t always been a smooth journey. We struggle with finances, push each other’s buttons with astonishing accuracy and regularity, and argue way too much. But we also take wonderful walks along Rush Creek and on Mount Burdell, enjoy bird-watching, play Scrabble with passion, cook together, laugh at a lot of the same things, and continue to find comfort in each other’s embrace. We are mated in the best sense of the word.
I sometimes try to imagine what my life would have been like, had I been successful in my pursuit of the many objects of my youthful affections. I would have been married dozens of times over by now. But I am content. Pat may not share my last name, or my birthday, but she seems willing to share my one life and that is better than any “happily ever after.”
Recently, I found myself thinking back to when she was only seven and used to play with her little girl friend Marty Boughton. The two of them would push their toy baby strollers around the house and pretend that they were married to our family dog, Mr. Higgins. They made up endless stories about this odd marital arrangement, which brought forth much giggling.
But it also brings up the question of how do we, in fact, find each other? How do we choose a mate? It seems so much simpler with animals. All an elk has to do is bash his head against another elk’s antlers for a couple of hours. If his migraine doesn’t kick in before his opponent’s does, then he wins the doe who has been anxiously waiting on the sidelines. Darwinian simplicity.
It used to be that simple for me. I can remember the first girl I ever had a crush on, in kindergarten. Back then, it didn’t matter if she was attractive. It didn’t matter if she had ample bosoms and wide hips for child-bearing (thankfully she didn’t – that would’ve been too weird in a five year-old). It didn’t matter if she had a scintillating wit, boundless charm, or was positioned to inherit a small fortune in men’s support garments. Actually, I don’t recall ever talking to her. Though I did get to sit next to her one day because I had gotten into trouble (probably talking too much) and was forced, as punishment, to occupy a desk on the dreaded Girls’ Side of the class. No, I was fascinated by Becky Clark because we shared the same last name. That was it.
In first grade, my fickle gaze fell upon Lisa Britt, a pretty blonde who didn’t share my last name, but who shared my birthday instead. Kismet. We became an item. Or at least as much of an item as you can be in first grade. I even remember going over to her house once, which was significant, as it was probably the first time I had ever visited Enemy Territory. (As a side note, Lisa and I both ended up in theatre, directing plays at the College of Marin, so maybe there is something to the shared birthday thing.)
As further evidence of how clueless I was, I once asked my first grade teacher, Mrs. Weber, if she was married to the school janitor. In full-on Sherlock Holmes mode, I came to that deduction based solely on the keen observation that they both were older and had gray hair. Ergo, they must be married. With raised eyebrows and a suitably wry smile, she informed me otherwise, and I was left to contemplate the confusing world of coupling.
So, it’s no surprise that I met Pat, my current wife, in a similarly unusual fashion. Following my separation from my first wife, I was forced to move into a new home in Novato, which required my finding a roommate. Initially, I shared the house with an older man named John, who departed less than a year later. I put an ad in the paper and prepared to search again.
I met with an odd cross-section of the dregs of humanity, before coming across an intriguing possibility. She was a theatre friend, a pianist and a stunner. She surveyed the backyard carefully, explaining that she wanted to see if there was enough sunlight for her to sunbathe in the nude, one of her regular activities. As much as I appreciated her potential decorative value, I was also sadly aware that having a gorgeous woman naked in my back yard might be viewed with skepticism by potential girlfriends. Probably for the best, she decided to look elsewhere. Then I met Pat.
Like me, she was also going through a divorce and needed a place to roost. She seemed perfectly acceptable, and I promised to let her know. But as we shook hands out in the driveway, I heard a very distinct voice inside my head that said, “This is the right one. This is good.” It wasn’t the first time I had received such a missive, and I took it seriously.
A few days later, when she came back to bring her deposit, she also brought a small stuffed animal for my daughter. Not only that, she had a second stuffed animal for Marty. That should have told me something.
We entered into the housemate arrangement, slowly became friends, then good friends, then best friends, then friends with the kind of benefits you don’t get from your typical 9-5 employer. It’s funny how life works out that way. We were married three years later and celebrated our 8th anniversary last July.
Lest you think this is a fairy tale, it hasn’t always been a smooth journey. We struggle with finances, push each other’s buttons with astonishing accuracy and regularity, and argue way too much. But we also take wonderful walks along Rush Creek and on Mount Burdell, enjoy bird-watching, play Scrabble with passion, cook together, laugh at a lot of the same things, and continue to find comfort in each other’s embrace. We are mated in the best sense of the word.
I sometimes try to imagine what my life would have been like, had I been successful in my pursuit of the many objects of my youthful affections. I would have been married dozens of times over by now. But I am content. Pat may not share my last name, or my birthday, but she seems willing to share my one life and that is better than any “happily ever after.”
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Bikes and Birthdays
Some days are just perfect. My 16th birthday was one of them.
In the fall of 1971, I got to accompany my parents on a business trip to Europe. My father, an orthopedic surgeon, was traveling to England and Switzerland to learn a new method for total hip replacement that employed a special glue to keep the bolts from working loose (probably enough information right there). He was planning to study and practice the procedure first in England, at a tiny town called Charnock Richard (near Manchester), then in Norwich. The third hospital was across the Channel in Bern, Switzerland. Of course, it meant my being out of school for two weeks in my Junior year, but I was willing to make the sacrifice.
I went along for the culture and the chance to practice my French in Paris, a scheduled side trip. I also made it my mission to return from overseas with a new bike, not so much for the anticipated savings, but for the cachet of a European marque. I spent as much time as I could scouting for a new bicycle to buy, having saved up a considerable (for me, at least) stake. But bicycle shops can be deceptively hard to find in Switzerland when you don’t know the area, not to mention the language. By the time we got to Paris, I was still bike-less.
Fortunately, I spoke pretty fluent French, so I was able to navigate the yellow pages easily and located a dealer not too far from our hotel. Setting out on my birthday, we all took the Metro and arrived at the Cycles Lejeune dealership. Now, I had never heard of Lejeune bicycles, but that didn’t matter so much back then. A racing frame was a racing frame, and this one looked pretty sharp. I had some extra money left over, so I asked the proprietor to upgrade the derailleurs to the Holy Grail of components: Campagnolo. While he worked on the bike, the three of us went out for a late lunch, with my mother taking a taxi back to the hotel afterward.
My father and I returned to the shop, where the new bike was already wrapped in a cardboard box, ready to be shipped. The packing was a little awkward, with the curved handlebars sticking out, but we ventured down into the Metro with my unwieldy purchase. Taking a bicycle onto the Metro during rush hour is probably not the wisest thing I’ve ever done, and we got some distinctly Parisian looks from fellow passengers as we tried to make room for more commuters piling on. My dad and I joked about how funny it would be if we actually caught someone with the handlebars and, wouldn’t you know it, we did.
Back at the hotel, I kept taking frustrating peeks at the bike in the box. I wanted to take it out and admire it, but that would have to wait until we got back to the States. Besides, it was time to go out for my birthday dinner. We had asked the concierge for a good recommendation for a restaurant serving Duck with Orange Sauce, a favorite of mine, and he suggested Chez Pauline, where his cousin was the maitre d’. Though not on the menu, the chef created my Caneton a l’Orange and followed it up with an Ile Flottante, which is meringues floating on a sea of milky custard sauce. Something new to me and delicious. My parents gave me a couple of small gifts and card with the miraculous message, “The bike has been paid for.” That’s the kind of birthday greeting I like.
As good as it had been so far, my birthday was far from over. After dessert, we jumped in a taxi and were soon at the Folies Bergere. Inside was all red velvet and brass, as we were shown to our plush seats. Even the program was covered in black velvet. The show was like something I’d never seen before. It was really a burlesque, mixing some dance, some broad comedy (of which I caught very little) and numerous Vegas-style acts featuring very attractive but otherwise expressionless topless showgirls parading around in bejeweled costumes. Probably too many naked breasts for my 16-year old brain to process, but it was exciting nonetheless to be at such an icon of French culture. And so impossibly grown-up. By the time we returned to our room I was completely spent, after such a long day.
Actually, there’s not much else to say. No pithy denouement. No moral. Just a wonderful birthday, made possible by wonderful parents.
If it sounds like I’m bragging, well, yes, I am. Absolument.
In the fall of 1971, I got to accompany my parents on a business trip to Europe. My father, an orthopedic surgeon, was traveling to England and Switzerland to learn a new method for total hip replacement that employed a special glue to keep the bolts from working loose (probably enough information right there). He was planning to study and practice the procedure first in England, at a tiny town called Charnock Richard (near Manchester), then in Norwich. The third hospital was across the Channel in Bern, Switzerland. Of course, it meant my being out of school for two weeks in my Junior year, but I was willing to make the sacrifice.
I went along for the culture and the chance to practice my French in Paris, a scheduled side trip. I also made it my mission to return from overseas with a new bike, not so much for the anticipated savings, but for the cachet of a European marque. I spent as much time as I could scouting for a new bicycle to buy, having saved up a considerable (for me, at least) stake. But bicycle shops can be deceptively hard to find in Switzerland when you don’t know the area, not to mention the language. By the time we got to Paris, I was still bike-less.
Fortunately, I spoke pretty fluent French, so I was able to navigate the yellow pages easily and located a dealer not too far from our hotel. Setting out on my birthday, we all took the Metro and arrived at the Cycles Lejeune dealership. Now, I had never heard of Lejeune bicycles, but that didn’t matter so much back then. A racing frame was a racing frame, and this one looked pretty sharp. I had some extra money left over, so I asked the proprietor to upgrade the derailleurs to the Holy Grail of components: Campagnolo. While he worked on the bike, the three of us went out for a late lunch, with my mother taking a taxi back to the hotel afterward.
My father and I returned to the shop, where the new bike was already wrapped in a cardboard box, ready to be shipped. The packing was a little awkward, with the curved handlebars sticking out, but we ventured down into the Metro with my unwieldy purchase. Taking a bicycle onto the Metro during rush hour is probably not the wisest thing I’ve ever done, and we got some distinctly Parisian looks from fellow passengers as we tried to make room for more commuters piling on. My dad and I joked about how funny it would be if we actually caught someone with the handlebars and, wouldn’t you know it, we did.
Back at the hotel, I kept taking frustrating peeks at the bike in the box. I wanted to take it out and admire it, but that would have to wait until we got back to the States. Besides, it was time to go out for my birthday dinner. We had asked the concierge for a good recommendation for a restaurant serving Duck with Orange Sauce, a favorite of mine, and he suggested Chez Pauline, where his cousin was the maitre d’. Though not on the menu, the chef created my Caneton a l’Orange and followed it up with an Ile Flottante, which is meringues floating on a sea of milky custard sauce. Something new to me and delicious. My parents gave me a couple of small gifts and card with the miraculous message, “The bike has been paid for.” That’s the kind of birthday greeting I like.
As good as it had been so far, my birthday was far from over. After dessert, we jumped in a taxi and were soon at the Folies Bergere. Inside was all red velvet and brass, as we were shown to our plush seats. Even the program was covered in black velvet. The show was like something I’d never seen before. It was really a burlesque, mixing some dance, some broad comedy (of which I caught very little) and numerous Vegas-style acts featuring very attractive but otherwise expressionless topless showgirls parading around in bejeweled costumes. Probably too many naked breasts for my 16-year old brain to process, but it was exciting nonetheless to be at such an icon of French culture. And so impossibly grown-up. By the time we returned to our room I was completely spent, after such a long day.
Actually, there’s not much else to say. No pithy denouement. No moral. Just a wonderful birthday, made possible by wonderful parents.
If it sounds like I’m bragging, well, yes, I am. Absolument.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Coal and Chips
Every time I visit a foreign country, I eagerly anticipate those things that instantly define the "otherness" of that place. I suppose you could call them my "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore" moments. This morning, when I walked out of our house in Novato, I caught a scent that reminded me of something I hadn't smelled in quite some time - coal smoke - and it took me back to one of those moments.
I don't know if the odor was caused by some conglomeration of car exhaust and somebody's fireplace, but it brought me back to my first trip to England in October 1971. I was traveling with my parents and we started our journey in Wigan, which is a bit like flying to New York and spending your first week in Hoboken, New Jersey. We ate at at rest stop that straddled the M-6 motorway, drank milkshakes that were simply flavored milk that had been shaken up, and ordered Wimpy Burgers that were just that.
After my father finished his business at the teaching hospital in Charnock-Richard, we escaped the industrial smog that hovered over Manchester and made our way north, through Lancaster and the Lake District to the border of Scotland. We saw a lot of English sights along the way. We visited chilly cathedrals and viewed acres of stained glass that needed a thorough cleaning. We drove through Blackpool (until you've been there, it's hard to imagine). We ate stuffy meals in stuffy hotels. I learned to hate the taste of fried tomatoes for breakfast and canned peas for dinner. I got fed-up with having chips (French fries) with virtually every meal (who would have thought to serve chips alongside a plate of spaghetti?) But, mostly, I was just an observer, sitting in the back seat of our little Ford Capri, watching the rainy English countryside pass by and slowly suffocating from the petrol fumes our defective rental was spewing.
That detachment changed forever when we arrived at Hadrian's Wall. Not knowing much about Roman history, I had to bone-up quickly as we visited the ruins of this massive fortification that stretches 80 miles across the northern border of England. But something visceral was taking place. I started to appreciate the astounding depth of English history. I mean, this wall had been constructed in A.D. 122. I tried to imagine those poor soldiers - hundreds of miles from their homes in sunny Italy and stationed here at the farthest reaches of the Roman Empire - waiting for the barbarians to descend from the North. Rumors were rife that the Scots would attack naked, with their skin dyed blue. Turns out, they eventually did just that.
Aside from the few comforts of civilization - lead pipes, indoor plumbing, glass windows - there was little to take the harsh edge off this forlorn posting. As I looked out over the vista towards Scotland, the weather turned and raindrops began to fall. You know the expression, "clouds raced across the sky"? Without any mountains to impede the wind's progress across the flat plain, these clouds did exactly that. They were mesmerizing.
Now that I had gone back to the beginning, I wanted to experience the England I had read about in novels. I wanted to imagine myself in the world of Sherlock Holmes. That second Dorothy moment happened at our hotel in Newcastle Upon Tyne, where we arrived that same day. The hotel was set back from the main road on a country lane. It featured lots of windows with tiny panes that looked out onto well-kempt gardens and lush countryside. But, the atmosphere inside was redolent of something new - the smell of coal burning in the fireplaces. It reminded me of steam train engines I had ridden in Sonora and transported me swiftly back to the 19th century. We took our tea in the parlor that afternoon and I half-expected to catch a glimpse of Professor Moriarty retrieving his cloak from the hatcheck girl. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
From that point on, I started to evolve. English history became my history. The Battle of Britain became the defining event of the 20th century. A newspaper story on the demolition of a hundred year-old hospital (which would have been declared a National Historical Landmark in the U.S.) was only significant in what ruins its removal might reveal. Even the discovery that our rooms at the historical and highly-touted Maids Head Hotel in Norwich would be located in a 1950s-era reconstruction that appeared to have been furnished by a Goodwill store in Grand Rapids was a non-issue. It certainly didn't dim my appreciation for the cozy pub below, which turned out to be the only remnant of the original hotel to survive the Luftwaffe's bombs. It was all good. History and culture were all around me - waiting to be discovered beneath the chintzy verneer of modernized England.
I stopped dwelling on the tawdry and the insignificant and began to assimulate. I started talking with a shy English accent and calling waitresses "Love." I watched dart competitions on ITV ("A hundred and twe-e-e-e-nty!"). I discarded my retainer and encouraged my teeth to celebrate their natural over-bite. I ate my weight in chips daily. I embraced my heritage with heavily-sweatered open arms. I became one with the "auld sod." With one notable exception.
I still refused to eat fried tomatoes for breakfast or canned peas for dinner. No, thank you very much, Love. I'm not that English.
I don't know if the odor was caused by some conglomeration of car exhaust and somebody's fireplace, but it brought me back to my first trip to England in October 1971. I was traveling with my parents and we started our journey in Wigan, which is a bit like flying to New York and spending your first week in Hoboken, New Jersey. We ate at at rest stop that straddled the M-6 motorway, drank milkshakes that were simply flavored milk that had been shaken up, and ordered Wimpy Burgers that were just that.
After my father finished his business at the teaching hospital in Charnock-Richard, we escaped the industrial smog that hovered over Manchester and made our way north, through Lancaster and the Lake District to the border of Scotland. We saw a lot of English sights along the way. We visited chilly cathedrals and viewed acres of stained glass that needed a thorough cleaning. We drove through Blackpool (until you've been there, it's hard to imagine). We ate stuffy meals in stuffy hotels. I learned to hate the taste of fried tomatoes for breakfast and canned peas for dinner. I got fed-up with having chips (French fries) with virtually every meal (who would have thought to serve chips alongside a plate of spaghetti?) But, mostly, I was just an observer, sitting in the back seat of our little Ford Capri, watching the rainy English countryside pass by and slowly suffocating from the petrol fumes our defective rental was spewing.
That detachment changed forever when we arrived at Hadrian's Wall. Not knowing much about Roman history, I had to bone-up quickly as we visited the ruins of this massive fortification that stretches 80 miles across the northern border of England. But something visceral was taking place. I started to appreciate the astounding depth of English history. I mean, this wall had been constructed in A.D. 122. I tried to imagine those poor soldiers - hundreds of miles from their homes in sunny Italy and stationed here at the farthest reaches of the Roman Empire - waiting for the barbarians to descend from the North. Rumors were rife that the Scots would attack naked, with their skin dyed blue. Turns out, they eventually did just that.
Aside from the few comforts of civilization - lead pipes, indoor plumbing, glass windows - there was little to take the harsh edge off this forlorn posting. As I looked out over the vista towards Scotland, the weather turned and raindrops began to fall. You know the expression, "clouds raced across the sky"? Without any mountains to impede the wind's progress across the flat plain, these clouds did exactly that. They were mesmerizing.
Now that I had gone back to the beginning, I wanted to experience the England I had read about in novels. I wanted to imagine myself in the world of Sherlock Holmes. That second Dorothy moment happened at our hotel in Newcastle Upon Tyne, where we arrived that same day. The hotel was set back from the main road on a country lane. It featured lots of windows with tiny panes that looked out onto well-kempt gardens and lush countryside. But, the atmosphere inside was redolent of something new - the smell of coal burning in the fireplaces. It reminded me of steam train engines I had ridden in Sonora and transported me swiftly back to the 19th century. We took our tea in the parlor that afternoon and I half-expected to catch a glimpse of Professor Moriarty retrieving his cloak from the hatcheck girl. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
From that point on, I started to evolve. English history became my history. The Battle of Britain became the defining event of the 20th century. A newspaper story on the demolition of a hundred year-old hospital (which would have been declared a National Historical Landmark in the U.S.) was only significant in what ruins its removal might reveal. Even the discovery that our rooms at the historical and highly-touted Maids Head Hotel in Norwich would be located in a 1950s-era reconstruction that appeared to have been furnished by a Goodwill store in Grand Rapids was a non-issue. It certainly didn't dim my appreciation for the cozy pub below, which turned out to be the only remnant of the original hotel to survive the Luftwaffe's bombs. It was all good. History and culture were all around me - waiting to be discovered beneath the chintzy verneer of modernized England.
I stopped dwelling on the tawdry and the insignificant and began to assimulate. I started talking with a shy English accent and calling waitresses "Love." I watched dart competitions on ITV ("A hundred and twe-e-e-e-nty!"). I discarded my retainer and encouraged my teeth to celebrate their natural over-bite. I ate my weight in chips daily. I embraced my heritage with heavily-sweatered open arms. I became one with the "auld sod." With one notable exception.
I still refused to eat fried tomatoes for breakfast or canned peas for dinner. No, thank you very much, Love. I'm not that English.
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