Snobby private schools

I drive past my son's old private school every night on my way home from work. I take secret pleasure in not letting anyone wearing designer clothes with a carefully coiffed hairdo and driving an expensive car out of the school carpark and on to the main road ahead of me.

My son's school was expensive, and so had its fair share of snobs. Waiting outside the classroom in the afternoons was a trial. Mothers would wear lovely outfits and full makeup just to make the school run. If you weren't in a clique, you had to stand by yourself and wait and watch everyone else chat.

One time I fell foul of one of the cliques, and it was like being a child again. The clique would stand around and talk while watching others then laugh like they were having the best time. I said hello to one of them, not realizing I was a new enemy, and she made a face and rolled her eyes at me. Right in the school carpark. I thought that was amazing.

I found it much easier to work in a multi-national corporation with constant re-orgs, internal politics and work deadlines than try to fit in with these people.

My son is older now and goes to a state school where there are all types of people, rich and poor, attractive and unattractive, English and foreign. I am so relieved.

A nice cup of tea

At the Russian art exhibit that Karen Blakeley and I went to yesterday, she liked this painting by Illya Repin that showed the joy of Russians when their demands for a parliament were met in 1905. This painting was supressed by the government until 1912, however.

I was admiring the painting, and later Karen pointed out all these things that I hadn't noticed, even though I'd been looking at the painting at the same time she was. She noted the menancing expressions on their faces, even some looking a bit insane. Once she pointed that out, it was all I could see, and I couldn't believe I'd missed that detail. Karen also pointed out many details that I'd totally missed in other paintings, DUH.

After a hard afternoon looking at paintings, it was time for a cup of tea. Fortnum & Mason's was across the road so we went there, and Karen took this photo of me on her Blackberry.

That was the time when only the dead could smile

I went to a Russian art exhibit today and got to see Nathan Altman's portrait of Anna Akhmatova, the poet (above).

Akhmatova wrote during the Stalin years, and her story is an amazing one. Here's an example of her work:

We thought we were beggars without property
until we began to lose one thing after another.
Then every day became a day of memory
and we began to compose new songs
about the wealth we once had
and God's generosity in the past.

I read a good biography of her a couple of years ago called Anna of all the Russias by Elaine Feinstein. Feinstein writes wonderfully of the life of artists under Stalin -- the constant threats of arrest, imprisonment and death -- so they memorized their poems and repeated them to each other to keep their work alive, as they couldn't risk writing anything down.

Of that period, Akhmatova wrote:

That was the time when only the dead could smile, happy to be at rest.

New terrorist threat levels

Here's some British humour from my friend Kumar:

"The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved". Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross."

Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists themselves have been re-categorised from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance". The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Also, the French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide". The only two higher levels in France are "Surrender" and "Collaborate". The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.

It's not only the English and French that are on a heightened level of alert. Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing". Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides".

The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs". They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose".

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels. The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

The Australian's level has increased from "What the ****?" to "Who the ****?". The next level for Australia will be "Well, **** me" all the way up to "Enough is a ****in nuff"."

A sense of emptiness

I think this picture sums up my relationship with my father pretty well. There I am, off to the side, overshadowed by him; my posture and hands in a defensive position. There is nothing between us but space -- the rest of the world looms large around us, and there is a sense of emptiness.

Krystal hamburger recipe

My friend Brenda asked me for a fake-Krystal/White Castle hamburger recipe. We've talked about Krystals a lot on this blog, and this is the closest recipe I could find to make them yourself. I made this recipe a few years ago, and it was delish. Of course, I then forgot about it completely until Brenda mentioned it again. BTW, Brenda is a vegetarian so uses a meat substitute instead of beef.

1 1/2 lbs ground beef/mince
1(4 tablespoon)envelope onion soup mix
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 tablespoons water
1/3 cup breadcrumbs
24 small square dinner rolls
American cheese (optional)
pickles (optional)

Sauce
1/2 cup mustard
1/2 cup ketchup

Directions

Preheat oven to 400°F.
Mix first 6 ingredients and press into an ungreased 10 by 15 inch jelly roll pan.

Prick with a fork. Bake for 10 minutes.

Drain off juices (if there's a lot of excess). Cool. Cut into 24 squares. Place squares on dinner rolls. Combine mustard and ketchup and spread on rolls. Top with pickles and cheese, if desired. This makes 12 servings of 2 hamburgers each.

Mom does jury duty

When my mother was called for jury duty in the mid-'70s when we lived in Vicksburg, Mississippi, she thought it was her duty and didn't try to get out of it. It was a murder case, and she was nervous that she wouldn't do a good job. But then the case dragged out, and the jury had to stay in a hotel. The juror my mother was put with was very upset that she had to sleep in a room with a stranger. My mother tried to calm her down, and after a while, she revealed her secret. She was almost totally bald and wore a wig. No one else knew her secret, and it was a small town we lived in, so she feared being exposed. But my mother would never tell her secret to anyone but me.

I went to see the trial one day, and it was a revelation to someone who had lived a sheltered existence. I heard the witnesses speak about the violence of their lives, their personal habits of carrying knives/guns in case anyone crossed them, and then memorable details -- such as the first time I heard someone say he had to 'take a leak,' which he proceeded to do right on the street.

But it was at the end of the trial that I got the biggest shock. My father went to say hello to the judge -- my father was well liked by law-enforcement officials because they would give him confiscated moonshine to test in his pathology lab to see if it was safe to drink so they could take it home to enjoy later. Anyway, the judge gave me a wink and a smile and said about the trial: as long as it's blacks killing other blacks, we don't care what happens! (only he didn't say blacks)

After the final no there comes a yes

I'm really struggling with this whole my-mother-just-died thing so I think it's time for me to put my favourite poem up:

The Well Dressed Man With A Beard
Wallace Stevens

After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
No was the night. Yes is this present sun.
If the rejected things, the things denied,
Slid over the western cataract, yet one,
One only, one thing that was firm, even
No greater than a cricket's horn, no more
Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech
Of the self that must sustain itself on speech,
One thing remaining, infallible, would be
Enough. Ah! douce campagna of that thing!
Ah! douce campagna, honey in the heart,
Green in the body, out of a petty phrase,
Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed:
The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps,
The aureole above the humming house...
It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.

While I'm confessing....

Yesterday I confessed to a racist thing I'd done as a girl. But when I was an adult, I was at a Thanksgiving dinner where some of the guests opined that it was a shame that blacks and homeless people were allowed to vote as they really didn't know what they were doing. General denigration of people not like themselves followed then everyone held hands and prayed aloud to Jesus to bless them on this Thanksgiving Day.

The incongruity of the scene struck me immediately. But what could I have done? It works so well in movies to take a stand on issues, and in our minds, we think we would do this, but when you are in the actual situation, you freeze, and the moment passes.

I'm still ashamed

I was posting about the Civil Rights era in Natchez, Mississippi, earlier. I went to Montebello School when I was very young, and Mr. McCraney, one of our neighbours, was a policeman and handled the traffic every morning. We loved to watch him direct the traffic, and felt sorry for him when he had to stand outside in the pouring rain.

One morning, he had a big traffic mess to handle when parents in the school started protesting the upcoming integration of Montebello. I had no idea what was going on when I saw angry parents at the school entrance with signs saying to keep the school whites only -- they shouted at everyone who drove past and looked so frightening.

The following school year, however, we had our first black student, Calvin. I can't imagine what that was like for him, being the only black person in an all-white school.

Anyway, we all liked Calvin, and one day, we had big excitement when we got to tour the Honey Bun factory for a school trip, and we each got a Honey Bun freshly made to eat. The bus was driving through a poorer part of town on the way back to school, and I decided to be clever. I whispered to a friend, "Hey, we're driving through Calvin's part of town." Then she whispered it to others, and others whispered it, and I was sitting next to Calvin and soon noticed big tears rolling down his cheeks.

He'd heard my remark. I'd made him cry! I was so ashamed of myself. How could I have done such a thing? I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings; I was only trying to be cute and wasn't thinking.

It made me think hard about racism. I was so sure I wasn't racist because we'd welcomed Calvin to school, yet I could make a remark like that. I'm still ashamed to this day of what I did, and it makes me think that we all have to struggle with racism, feeling superior to others for no reason, etc., no matter how we pride ourselves on our perfection in public. The internal struggles are the hardest.

Some light relief

Today's contribution from my friend Simon:

"You couldn't make it up!

Okay, so this is how this conversation went:

Customer: I would like to order a cake for a leaving party this week.

Supermarket Employee: What you want on the cake?

Customer: 'Best Wishes Suzanne' and underneath that 'We will miss you'."

Beauty and terror

Natchez, Mississippi, was a wonderful place to grow up -- full of interesting people and places. We loved participating in the spring pilgrimage every year -- photo above is of me and my brother Kevin, all dressed up for the pageant we put on for tourists.

But there was a dark side to Natchez in the 1960s during the Civil Rights movement. My father was the town's pathologist and coroner and every Saturday night, it seemed, he was called out to attend to some brutal murder scene. Because I was a small child, I thought these murders were a normal part of life. I had no idea that the era I was growing up in was an especially violent one.

My father would come home with pictures and tales of each slaying -- a bomb planted in a car, a man set on fire or shot. It was horrifying.

When we would drive past rural gas stations, my father would say, "That's one of their meeting places."

"Meeting place? Of who?" we would ask.

"The KKK," he'd reply.

I recently came across some additional photos of Natchez during my youth. I debated about putting these up, but if these guys decided it was OK to march in public in Natchez in the '60s, then they can march again in my blog. I'll make a concession and not put their names here, even though they are printed on the back of the photos.

My Secret Garden

My mother loved to garden. She said the best therapy in the world was pulling up weeds in a flowerbed. My sister-in-law Paula yesterday advised me to plant something in my garden for my mother and place a little ornament next to it; in Mom's case it would have to be a little dog as she collected glass dogs when she was younger.

All my life, my mother tried to get me to read a book she loved, The Secret Garden. I resisted; I was far too busy with my Nancy Drews and then on to other things later. I discovered that I still had the copy of the book she gave me when I was a child, and I knew I had to read it now.

How inspiring it is, in a bit of a childish way, but as an adult, I can interpret the writing to help me in any way I please. I am going to use it and my own garden (if spring ever comes to England, and I can get out there and work on my flowerbeds) to try and heal myself in the coming months.

In the meantime, here's a beautiful passage from the book:

One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throw's one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun -- which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands of years...

One knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries.

Di Formaggio!

Spent Easter in London with my husband's sister and her husband, kids, and a bunch of his Italian relatives. This meant I had to shout 'di formaggio' instead of 'say cheese' when I took this picture.

Language barriers also meant that we ended up playing dice games after lunch instead of Scrabble or Monopoly. Pig is one of our fave dice games -- and today we learned to shout 'maiale' instead of 'pig' when someone rolled too many times and got out.

My in-laws are wonderful cooks, and I ate way too much so when we did the egg and spoon race, I came in last. My sister-in-law Paula, though, always stays so slim no matter how much she eats (see pic below). I find this really annoying....

Missing my mother at Easter

I was trying to dye Easter eggs last night but my heart wasn't in it. My mother used to hide Easter eggs in our house so we could have a hunt indoors when we were really small. She'd say "Hot" or "Cold" and "you're getting warmer," or "it's freezing" to help guide us. Every year, though, we would miss an egg and then the house would start smelling two weeks later.

Now I've just used the same Hot/Cold game with my family this morning to make them hunt for their chocolate eggs. Since my son Mikey inadvertently sat on my husband's egg, he didn't have to look very far for his. We got Mel a white chocolate egg with the words 'Daddy Thomas' written on it in dark chocolate. When Katie was four and wanted to call for her Daddy when we were in a crowd, she didn't want other daddies to think she was calling them, so she called out for 'Daddy Thomas,' and the name stuck.

Missing my mother today --she loved Easter. I love this photo of her (below) with my daughter Katie. She couldn't hold her grandchild because she couldn't use her arms so we placed Katie on her lap and held her on there while the other took a picture.

My mother's eyes are so pretty in this pic. When I saw her for the last time and was sobbing about how I might never see her again, she just looked at me with her big blue eyes. Multiple Sclerosis had robbed her of the ability to cry -- imagine such a thing. So she couldn't shed a tear with me, but just looked at me sadly as I cried.

The tyranny of Easter

I never liked Easter much. My childhood dog, Fluffy, died at Easter, I got fired from a job at Easter, and now my mother has died near Easter. In England, it was another holiday where all the stores closed for days so you had to make sure you had all the food for every meal bought in advance -- I found it all a chore.

Last year we went to Tunisia on the Easter weekend, and it was fun to be in a land where there is no Easter. No chocolate eggs, no bunnies, no pressure. The picture above is from that weekend.

I guess I didn't appreciate that when I lived in Mississippi though, all the flowers were blooming at Easter. This year in England, it has been snowing.

American social problems

I've been trying to follow the uproar over Obama's race speech from the UK. I listened to what he said and was impressed. Then I watched some footage of Fox news anchors fighting over Obama saying his grandmother was a "typical white person" of her time. I understand what he means.

I have history books that my grandmothers used in the 1920s, and I can see that they were taught about 'the problem' of the 'Negro.' I had a new understanding of why they would have been more racist than I am, because they were taught it in school. This makes me think that maybe each successive generation will be less racist as institutionalized racism recedes?

Anyway, some examples (double click to enlarge) of what my grandmothers were taught in school from their textbook, American Social Problems by Henry Burch and Howard Patterson, published by the Macmillan Company in 1925:

The immense edifice of memory

When I was a little girl, and my mother (pictured above) would get ready to go out somewhere, she'd always put on Chanel No. 5 right before she left. As soon as the door closed, I would run to the place she had last stood and breathe in the still-falling-through-the-air drops of Chanel. They would settle on me, and I would breathe in the fragrance and be happy.

No matter what other perfume I have tried to use in life, none affects me like Chanel - it's like the fragrance is part of me. And now I have a greater understanding of why, as research shows that smells can live in the memories of our tissues. Here's a technical explanation from a scientific paper:

"Many wonder how certain smells able to trigger memories of events taking place several years ago despite the fact that sensory neurons in the epithelium survive for about only 60 days. The answer is that the neurons in the epithelium actually have successors. As the olfactory neurons die, new olfactory neurons generated by the layer of stem cells beneath them, which eventually takes the role of the old neuron as it dies. Linda Buck points out that the key point to the answer is that "memories survive because the axons of neurons that express the same receptor always go to the same place". The memories are stored in the hippocampus, and through relational memory certain smells trigger memories.

Another popular question is the reason behind smell having such a strong role in instantaneously recalling memory. Despite our belief that sight and hearing are the two most important senses to our survival, from an evolutionary perspective smell is one of the most important senses. To recognize food or to detect poison, smell is the sense that almost all other mammals use. Because of this basic feature yet vital role, smell is one of the oldest parts of our brain. Trygg Engen, a psychology professor at Brown University notes that smells serve as "index keys" to quickly retrieve certain memories in our brain. This primitive yet essential role is probably why smells trigger memory more than does seeing or hearing."

My sister-in-law Paula (my husband's sister) has the same relationship with Miss Dior and her mother. She even smelled Miss Dior after her mother died, though she hadn't used it.

When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered· the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory -Marcel Proust

A different kind of grief?

My mother knew how much my friend Brenda Ware Jones loved her horse Buffy. Brenda has sent me what she wrote when Buffy died. If anyone will understand the depth of feeling Brenda had about her horse, it will be Ellen Walther Sousa, who contributed an anecdote about her horses earlier in this blog. Pic above is of Brenda (in front) and me riding in Hyde Park a few years ago.

Brenda writes:

"Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince/ and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." Hamlet, V.ii. 370-371)

Today my beloved sorrel Quarter horse, Buffy, is being euthanized, by my order. It is time. He is old and arthritic, and far past his jumping and galloping days. He cannot always get himself up when he lies down. I have cried, but I can have no real hesitation; his comfort and end of suffering must trump my selfish desire to keep him alive forever.

I bought him for my daughter Elizabeth, as her eighth birthday present, in 1992. (Who was I trying to kid? He was my eighth birthday present, 26 years late!) His AQHA registry papers say "Bonanza Buff", and it never occurred to us to change his name. "Buffy" just seemed to suit him; he was certainly no vampire -slayer, but he served as a "buffer" between us and our fears. If we were timid about jumping a higher jump, he'd take us over it nimbly (unless he judged it too high, whereupon he’d simply stop politely in front of it.) Maybe he didn’t jump gracefully enough to win a ribbon every time, but always safely, and afterwards he'd snort softly and look back, as if to say, "Was that okay? Can we quit now? Got any carrots on you?"

He was a big horse, but never a very bold one. Any pasture-mate, even the smallest Shetland pony, could easily steal his feed. Buffy would back away, content to starve, rather than fight for what was his simple due. He was not an "alpha male," by any means.

But, oh, how we loved our boy! I certainly had no business buying him on impulse, fourteen years ago. But the minute I locked eyes with that lovely fellow, the minute I sat on his long, strong back, I knew that we belonged together. We still do. If there's any kind of Heaven, Lizzy and I will see him there one day. We'll throw our legs over him, bareback, grab hold of his beautiful honey-hued mane, and canter over the hills and far away, over field, hedge, fence, and stream. We’ll have no fear. And he’ll have no pain.

I'll be with him when the sodium pentobarbitol relaxes him into easeful Death, I think. If I can remember to, I’ll quote from Isaiah as I lie upon his sweaty , sweet smelling shoulder, waiting for his honest heart to stop:

"They...shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

By the time you read this, Buffy will be gone. And I'll be so very blue. But so, so thankful for the happy time I got to spend with a truly fine, truly kind horse. Thank you all for enduring my bathetic ramblings. One last thought, from A.E. Housman:

"With rue my heart is laden/For golden friends I had"

Brown Easter eggs

My friend Elise had an Easter party this afternoon for kids and their mothers. Her house is always beautifully decorated for each season (as you can see from pic above).

Every Easter though, I have the same problem. British eggs are brown, and I need white ones to dye, which I then use for my annual Easter egg and spoon races (see video). Usually I have to go hunting for duck eggs, which are white, but this year, Elise had extra white chicken eggs that her husband had driven to London to get, and she let me have a dozen. Thanks Elise.

But why is it that American eggs are white, and British eggs are brown?

Would mistress like a bath?

My friend Meg Williams came to see me on Monday night and gave me her insight into how long it would take me to grieve over my mother's death. She said she felt like she was on another planet, as I do now, for months THEN she felt sad after that.

Mrs. Williams and I had our first babies six weeks apart so we've enjoyed watching them grow up. Here they are five years ago on the beach in Devon near Mrs. William's house.

I had only been in England a short time before I had my daughter Katie, and I immediately began to use the Southern way of addressing friends to children. "Katie," I'd say, "say hello to Mrs. Williams." I began to notice Meg smiling wryly when I did this. After a while, it dawned on me that no one else in England did this thing of addressing elders as "Mrs this or that" or when you became more familiar with them, they would allow you to call them "Miss" with their first name. For example, I was allowed to call my mother's best friend "Miss Betty" after years of knowing her.

Now it's a joke between Meg and me; we haven't called each other by our first names in 18 years. She refers to me as Mrs. Thomas; and she's Mrs. Williams to me. In our phone conversations, cards, letter, emails -- we never use our first names. Even when there's a crisis -- I called her up to tell her my mother had died, but I said, "Mrs. Williams -- bad news from me," then continued. If I actually called her Meg, she wouldn't even think I was me anymore.

Mrs. Williams gave me a delightful birthday present. She knows I love antique books so she gave me a Modern Practical Cookery book from the 1920s. I thought I might share a little of its wisdom with you. Here's a paragraph from the "Training a Maid" section:

"In the morning one of the maid's duties is to knock at the door of the bed-room door and then walk with the tea, which is arranged on a tray with a biscuit and a piece of bread-and-butter.

She pulls up the blinds and enquires if her mistress would like a bath, and if so, fills it and put the bath mat on the floor. She knocks at the door when the bath is quite ready.

When the maid has change to give to her mistress, or when letters, parcels, and newsletters arrive, they must be brought in on a salver, which is kept in the hall for that purpose."

I must share this recipe with you from the book too. My mother always made cinnamon toast so I've been eating that lately to remember her:

"Cinnamon toast, a great delicacy across the Atlantic, is a variation of butter toast, equally popular with young and old.

Slice the bread to toast thickness. Toast it, and butter while hot. Mix together one teaspoon cinnamon and two dessertspoonfuls of sugar. Sprinkle them over the toast then place this in the top of the oven or under the griller to melt the sugar slightly."

Suffering and joy

I received this beautiful message from an anonymous contributor. Thank you for this. Anyone else who wants to share stories of grief, send them to me and I will post. I just received another to go up next week.

"That "Well of Grief" poem on your blog by David Whyte helped me when I was grieving my first marriage. The idea that by going down to "the place we cannot breathe," we find in the dark bottom of the well the gold coins "thrown by those who wished for something else."

To me, there is something about going down to the very depths, to suck the marrow out of the bones of life (as I think one poet put it), that is at the core of being human. Suffering and joy, suffering and joy, suffering and joy. I think the danger is getting stuck at either end, but you seem to have created for yourself a loving community that will hold the space for you in which to grieve. That is a remarkable accomplishment.

It's only been recently that I've begun to grieve for my father, 13 years after he died. I don't so much grieve for who he was, but for the place he would have occupied in my life. I have grown so much myself since he died that I wonder if I could have transformed my relationship with him had he survived, at least in some small way. Not that he could have changed, but that he could have known that I finally was able to forgive him. To me, that's what the sixth commandment should read: forgive thy father and thy mother that thy days be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

Eternal advent

I went to Germany to a Christmas market last December and bought Mom a chocolate advent calendar. You open a little window each day, and there's a piece of delicious German chocolate to enjoy. I liked this traditional looking one so much that I bought one for myself so I'd know that I had the same calendar and chocolate each day in England as Mom had in Tennessee.

She loved it so much that she made her nurse put it up on the wall, and when Christmas was over, she didn't want them to take it down. I loved the advent calendar too because I knew Mom was enjoying it so much, so I didn't take mine down either, and now I can't take it down because Mom is gone.

What are people going to think when it's August, and I still have an advent calendar up in my kitchen?

Her Shirley Temple doll is bigger than mine!

My mother got nice gifts for Christmas from her parents but she used to tell me that her relative Evelyn always got the same thing but in a bigger size.

"Poor Mom," I'd say, wondering if that was really true. And now I've found this picture from a Christmas in the 1930s, and you can see my mother was telling the truth. There she is on the left with a normal-sized Shirley Temple doll while Evelyn sits next to her with her super-sized Shirley (double-click on photo to enlarge the image).

Can you imagine having to spend every Christmas watching Evelyn open a more expensive version of the very gift you received? No wonder my mother developed such saintly patience later in life!

Helpful article on the grieving process

My aunt and uncle in New Orleans, Susan and Bill Wells, sent me a helpful article on grieving. I'll post it here in case it helps anyone else who is reading this blog. If you double click on the image, you will get a bigger version that you can read.

Trying to cope with grief, I even went to church

Last weekend, I was feeling pretty low about my mother's death. I wanted to feel connected with her again so I went to Evensong at the church around the corner from my house (I've already made fun of regular church attendance in an earlier post so you don't have to tell me the irony of me going there myself). My mother was very religious so I thought going to church might help ease my mind.

I walked into the church and was immediately calmed by the atmosphere. The entire church was in darkness -- only the nave was lit with dozens and dozens of candles. Later the choir came in and sang beautiful meditative songs, and best of all, there was no audience participation. I didn't have to display my religious hypocrisy openly because this was something I'd never heard of before - a Taize Evensong - and those of us sitting in the pews were like mere witnesses at a church service.

I looked this Taize thing up on the Internet, and found this definition:

"Taizé Prayer is a meditative service of ritual, reverence and simplicity which originated in Taize, France, in 1940 and consists of music, song, gospel readings, quiet meditation, chants, and veneration of the cross.

'Nothing is more conducive to communion with Living God than a meditative common prayer with singing that never ends, but continues in the silence of one’s heart, when one is alone again.'"

I have to say that when the vicar began to talk about God though, "God thinks..." and God wants....", his words fell on stony ground. I doubt any church can reach me now -- if I could get through a complete childhood lived in the Bible Belt and come out as a non-believer, I think I really must be a lost cause.

Delisioso!

My sister-in-law Paula, who lives in London but married into an Italian family, has just sent me this amusing story. Paula says:

"Just referring to your blog and the chat about eating all the food your hostess has prepared. Here in England it is seen rude to eat little because it reflects on how good the food is. The hostess may take offense thinking that you do not like the food that she has spent hours preparing. Apparently, when my grandmother was young it was as it is in Mississippi and considered the height of ill breeding to stuff yourself!

It is also like that in Italy. On one of my early trips to meet "La famiglia," I left some food on my plate at a birthday party buffet. My mother-in-law Lucia quickly took it and scoffed it down so her daughter-in-law did not appear rude. They take great offense, mainly the older generation, if you don't eat everything they give you!

You are also rude if you go to someone's house and they offer you something to eat and you refuse. (even if you have just eaten and they know it). Mama mia! It's crazy over there when you visit relatives, you have to be so careful not to offend. You have to say all things are "Bello" and everything you eat is "Delisioso", otherwise you are just this rude English woman!"

Paula's mother-in-law Lucia makes a delicious Italian Parmesan stuffing. I tried to find the recipe and came up with this:

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
2 medium celery ribs with leaves, chopped
2 medium red bell peppers, seeded and chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 pound sweet or hot Italian sausage, casings removed
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon crushed hot red pepper
12 ounces day-old crusty Italian bread, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 7 cups)
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 1/2 cups Homemade Turkey Stock, or use canned reduced-sodium chicken broth, as needed

In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion, celery, red pepper, and garlic. Cook, stirring often, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the sausage and cook, breaking up the sausage with a spoon, until the sausage loses its pink color, 8 to 10 minutes. Stir in the basil, oregano, salt, and crushed red pepper. Transfer to a large bowl.

Add the bread and cheese and mix well. Stir in the butter and wine, and enough of the stock to moisten the dressing, about 1 cup. Use as a stuffing. Or place in a buttered baking dish, drizzle with an additional 1/2 cup broth, cover, and bake as a side dish.

I sent this recipe to Paula to check that it was OK, and she replied:

"The Parmesan cheese stuffing is not as complicated as the recipe you have shown me. All it is is stale white bread, made into breadcrumbs, loads of grated parmesan and bind with 2 or 3 eggs. That's it!"

Two expats in a shop

I feel like I'm in another world since my mother died. I feel tired and get headaches easily. I was wondering what I could do to feel better and thought maybe a manicure might distract me.

I went to the first place I found with manicurists who weren't busy. A small Asian man came out and started doing my nails. They were all speaking another language in the shop but I couldn't identify it. The man's English was very poor, but that didn't matter to me as I don't feel like talking to anyone these days.

He worked very hard on my hands and feet. We tried to communicate. I asked if he had family here or friends. He shook his head. "After work, go home. Nothing," he answered.

"You from where?" he asked. "America," I said. He gave me a quick look but didn't say anything. I watched him, thinking how lonely he must be in England, not speaking the language. I knew how lonely I'd been when I first moved here, even though I knew the language (sort of).

I realized I hadn't asked him where he was from, so I asked.

"Vietnam," he said. Then he gave me the same look he'd given me a second ago.

"Oh!" I said, now understanding his expression. I remembered the Vietnam war well from my childhood. My parents supported it at first but their support for the war evaporated when it came home to them what sacrifices might actually be necessary (my brothers' birth dates were put in a jar to be drawn in a lottery to see if they would be sent over to fight).

"I'm sorry," I said. "Did you have any relatives in the war?"

"My father," he said. "He died."

And suddenly, we two expats sitting in this almost-deserted shop in England knew so much about each other. Vietnam doesn't mean anything to English people, but to this man and me, it means a great deal.

My grandmother Scanlon

My father's mother, Mary Ezell Scanlon, was such an interesting woman. That's her picture above the year she graduated from Mississippi State College for Women in 1927 (she's on the left). She used to talk about the Civil War so much, as older Southerners did, that when I was little I thought the war was something that had just happened.

Her daughter, my aunt Carolyn, asked her to start writing down stories of her life so we would remember them. Here is an excerpt:

"At the age of 80 -- almost 81 -- my daughter has asked me to write my memories, and trace our roots. I hope I have enough time left to complete the task. I'm not worried about dying -- I have several people I am looking forward to haunting -- eerie noises in the night, etc.

One of the things I remember most about my childhood was the visits we had from Mama's mother's brother, Uncle Jim Love. He walked with a cane as he was shot in the knee at Shiloh, Tennessee, in the Civil War. He told us stories about the war and taught us old Rebel songs -- and instilled in us a deep dislike for 'damn Yankees.' My grandfather had been shot in the arm and still had pieces of lead there which he picked out until it became a cancer caused by the irritation. Aunt Mamie (Mama's sister) said he was lazy, but the poor man had lead poisoning!"

More from Grandmom Scanlon again soon (from her writing; she died a few years ago). Below is a picture of her with my son Mikey. She's sitting under one of her paintings.


PS
My grandmother had several recipes that are essential to our own family's happiness. She used to make these cheese straws, and we would wolf them down. Now whenever we need cheering up, or there's a social event coming up, we get out Grandmom's Cheese Straw recipe:

CHEESE STRAWS

1/2 lb. grated strong cheddar cheese, soft
1/2 lb. butter, soft
2 c. plain flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. red pepper
2 c. Rice Krispies

Mix all ingredients together with hands. Make into straws or roll into balls, press with a fork to make a cheese wafer. Bake 10-20 minutes at 350 degrees. Do not brown. If making into straws cut while warm.

Everything is springing to life now

This is a pic of my mother and me outside our house in Natchez, getting ready for one of the Spring Pilgrimage events. The tourists come when all the flowers are in bloom to tour the ante-bellum homes, and the locals put on a pageant for them, and also take them through the houses dressed as Southern belles.

We had so many azalea bushes around our house that in spring, it would look like the woods were on fire just from the scarlet colour of the flowers.

I went outside for the first time in a week and noticed my one puny azalea bush (such a different climate in the UK; we can't grow lush stuff here, too cold) had bloomed as if mocking me in my grief. I walked around my little garden and noticed all the buds opening, everything springing to life around me, the birds stealing bits of fluff from my flower beds to build their nests.

It made me feel worse instead of better. Why should everything be coming to life now but my mother is dead?