The in-between moments.

     A very contented, slightly weepy mum departed Graz, this past Sunday. Thankfully, the weepy part lasted only a moment. It's that moment when the plane lifts and you know you are leaving a part of your heart behind, tucked somewhere between the last hug and good-bye kiss.  Soon, a clear view of the Austrian hillsides, bathed in autumn sunlight had me smiling.  Thoughts of our silly family conversations and exchanges shoved the weepies far away. This had been a successful excursion and not too taxing on either our daughter, or ourselves; although later, I paid for all that walking and stair climbing.
     Well, I sat back in my seat, recalling several exchanges with my twenty-two year old daughter. Chuckling to myself, I gazed out the Ryanair window.  Now, this is what I wish to share. There were those times, after having asked my darling girl various questions about some particular food, or on the produce markets, or clarification of a local term, my daughter would for a mere second or two, stare into my eyes as if I were speaking gerbil-lese, (The language probably goes something like this: "Squeak, squeak, --- squeak-squeak---squeakers.") I hold that memory and smile because despite whatever my sweet daughter thinks, I truly don't know the language of gerbils.
     I must admit to the fact that my daughter and I, often have verbal waltzes and usually, we come to a comfortable understanding, but other times I still get that blank stare, the one that seems to ask, "What planet are you from?"and "Are you really my mother?" This has been going on since my child was four and I suspect it will continue like this until I view my last sunrise or sunset. I've also learned to cherish all these moments. I simply share this for all the moms who have learned to keep smiling, because we know what we know.

Fall leaves continue to layer and decorate the ground. Walking to the market these days I can't avoid seeing swirling leaves and leaves that get lifted so near to me that I often reach out to grasp them, but usually unsuccessfully.  Autumn back home in my valley is fine and something I have always looked forward too, but here, in England it is so bolder, crisper and fresher. Experiencing fall, as I have read it to be in so many books as a child, has been so darn pleasant.
Well, going to the market is almost an every day routine and something that I enjoy, even without the use of an auto. On foot, observing what is occurring around me, I hear birds calling to one another and I pass cats sunning themselves near the front steps of their homes, along with the occasional squirrel hoping for a treat. I'm able to take in the rambling little garden plots.  It's so common to see mothers with tots in strollers and the elderly returning from their errands, and I often share my smile.

Past the flower shops, the barber shop and various other boutiques that are strung along the way, I go.  I'm carried along as if I too were a loosened piece of foliage caught in a teasing wind. A photo (the second photo is an obvious, amateur mistake) of a particularly charming garden pub. Its stone wall, quaint patio, and hanging flower baskets, containing begonias aflame with color, is to me like a familiar friend greeting me with welcome cheerfulness and brightness. The hustle and bustle of this small town is hidden for the moment, to be revealed as you reach the end of Primrose Hill road. (Walking uphill is a a fairly decent leg workout too.) Winds sneak by me and then are stilled, reminding me that winter will soon arrive and my walks and words may have an altogether different tone! Today, this Winnie the Pooh gal is content!

Many of the local people that we have encountered are fed up with all the rain here in England. I do feel for them, but secretly, I'm still enjoying this wetness. It is still both fresh and novel.  Not so for folks who must deal with rising rivers and floods (in Scotland and parts of Wales, heavy storms have created real problems for many towns). That is a totally different situation, and if I were presently living there, I would not be so enthralled with these high amounts of rainfall.

But, where I come from, the days are mostly dry, hot with sunshine that lingers long past the summer season.  My hometown is a place where rain is scarce.  So for now, to be here with such moisture is a pleasant respite.  In fact, bouts of rain induces me to attempt some delayed laundry chores and reward myself with a cup of Earl Grey tea and a bit of book reading, which for me, is a throughly enjoyable task.  I have recently had a good read, Dodger, a tale by the marvelous Terry Pratchett.  Now, I'm having fantasies of molding my poor writing skills into something past the filling out of forms level and note taking level.  Reading, pushes me to read more.
I've also left behind my old grammar book back in the U.S. but only because it was so darn bulky and I needed to bring more pants. The hunt for a simple grammar book was in the process, when I happened to stumble upon a very small English grammar book in a local charity shop.  Here in England, a few T.V. morning shows have lively discussions about grammar and how to avoid americanisms, which apparently are creeping into the lexicon.  I will avoid saying, "I got down off my bicycle," and simply say, "I got off my bicycle." To be safe and since I don't have a bike here, I plan to avoid saying this particular phrase altogether. I'm a thick headed clod, but  a clod that's determined to improve, so I do apologize for any and all errors. Where is the proof reading icon on this page, because I don't see one.  Enough about grammar. (Fragmented sentences go with my style of thinking too!)

There are large segments of time when the rains cease, clouds drift to reveal a blue sky, a sky so gentle; a Turner landscape come alive.  Blue skies compel me to march myself into town to gather what I need from the local markets and clear, dry sunsets invite a velvety night sky to show me her stars.  So many sparkling stars brings forth childhood tales of Peter Pan and Mary Poppins.  Bundled in a warm coat, both my husband and myself, will take a leisurely stroll into town for a bite to eat, where  there are many fine choices, nothing grand, but restaurants which are clean, and serve flavorful food. Places imbued with coziness and persons imbued with a cheerfulness that coaxes you to return; these are all delightfully satisfying to a frightfully unsophisticated, newcomer like me.

In terms of taste, for most of us Americans, including myself, the high salt content is normal, but what I have experienced here and have found to my liking, is that less salt truly does bring out the flavor and essence of what has been prepared.  At home, I tend to use less salt and infuse more spices, herbs or broths in to my recipes, avoiding sugar, if possible. (fresh fruits or fresh juices can add both flavor and sweetness for my tastes) On a recent British cooking show, cook demonstrated and created sweet, chocolate brownies and mini cakes, that had been baked with red beets, both flesh and juice.  Avoiding over salting and sweetening is fine with me.  Cakes, biscuits,  (cookies for us yanks), tarts and other bakery delights are mildly sweet, not over done, and this is just fine for my tastebuds and my waistline which I think is diminishing from healthier fare and smaller portions and from so many walks to here and there.  Now, except for the truly sinful desserts, such as sticky pudding, then sugar, honey or caramels are king.  Here in England, the sticky pudding is not for the faint hearted or any one who works in the field of dentistry.  I mean, sticky pudding is killer sweet and too yummy for mortal words.

The Nags Head, a fantastic little country restaurant with some gourmet flare, and fine dining, serves up the sweet dish to perfection, in my view.  The Nags Head is a place not far from where we live and their sticky pudding dessert sent me into an immediate food comma, even after sharing the sticky pudding culprit with two other adults, I was drunk on the sweetness of it all.  This dessert should come with a its own warning.  This evil darling of a dessert was demolished in an appropriately slow speed and in a well mannered style.  This is the truth as best as I can recall. (Only a week ago.)

Taking this as a sweet spot to pause and seeing the sun peeking past those billowing clouds, I'll now tromp into town, if only to stand for a few seconds in front of of a certain bakery shop, to take large whiffs of trays of alluring little pastries all snuggled together.  It will be a fine test of wills, then on to grocery shopping and house duties!

May your experiences today, whether large or small, be good ones, encouraging and soul enriching. From, the scribbler.

 Finished with several normal house elf activities; such as washing bedsheets, dusting the furniture and the folding of clothes, I am eager to be out and about the big city, so I will dispense with the details of home life here in England, although I am still thrilled to hang dry my clothes using the heat from the heated floors. Clothes hung on the bathroom towel bars did the job just fine, since the European washer/dryer unit in our flat  could fit quite nicely in a child's playhouse and is terribly slow to dry adult size clothing. I've created a whole walk in drying room. Well, enough of that.

I have also, finally completed my middle grade manuscript, one I've been scribbling away on for several years. This completion carries a multitude of emotions for me, and the tedious editing and re-editing of the stories, was for me an act similar to when a woman selects her jewelry for a special occasion. Choosing a pair of earrings belonging to one's mother could set off one's attire just so, and instill a certain confidence, a necklace given by a kind sister or friend, could increase one's smile, or perhaps a bold and colorful scarf, borrowed from a daughter's closet, might add layers of meaning, depth and mystery. Well, these are my silly thoughts of course, and this strange, writing process works for me.

Now, unlike a celebratory evening out, the completion of my manuscript, although satisfying, was quiet and draining all at once. No one may ever read it and I may lack the talent to be published, but that fact doesn't bother me in the least. What terrifies me more is the fact that it could be published. Not losing sleep with that idea so onto what's important.

  My middle-grade level story is a creative act of remembrance tied with a ribbon of thankfulness. From my earliest childhood and onward, many women, whether they knew it or not, encouraged and motivated me to be more, seek more and realize more. Women, whose only fame, were their acts of kindness, hard work, pluck, and giving natures, managed to help me become a fairly decent human being. There have also been wonderful male role models in my childhood, and the personalities of these men are woven into various adult characters.  Even the children I grew up with, in and around my old neighborhood, have taught me many things, some good and some not so good, yet I have attempted to acknowledge many persons in my own small way through my stories. 

 Now, that I am abroad and so far from my smallish, hometown in California, I will attempt not to squander the moments I have to absorb the uniqueness that is England and to write. Write I will because one small collection of tales was not nearly a fitting thank-you for the people who lived in and around on my neighborhood, school and street! 

Train schedules are not to be ignored so, I am off to London, umbrella in hand to check out a few places into London, meet a particularly cool nephew from Hawaii and to end the evening with a fine Indian meal in the East End.  

 

Opportunity Knocks!

September is well under way and I'm far from my hometown in California, but my journey abroad has begun. For many, this would not be a thrilling journey, but for me it is an amazing opportunity and I'm taking full advantage of the few months I (we) will be living here.  The town, where we have rented a flat, is not far from London by train, and that holds lots of opportunities to explore.

Not even a full week, but I'm still feeling terribly excited and enthralled with living in England. It is early morning and more sunshine has arrived and the various shades of green, coloring the surrounding trees, fields and hills infuse me with energy.   Another kind of energy also infuses me this morning, that being the chemical kind, known as caffeine. With the french coffee press in use, I've stepped into the land of blog.
What has brought me to England, well nothing glamorous, but something very fortuitous: business.  A great little company, that my husband works for, has brought him here on a project and I've come along.  A simple tale, but it will be told (from the point of view of a Spanish-speaking Latina and former barrio girl from the sticks).