The Odor of England

From one vantage out of our bedroom window is the Dorset Cereal Factory, a handsome red brick building which engenders the only traffic on our street--Peverell Avenue East--that I’m aware of. Last night walking home after visiting the Holy Trinity Catholic church on the High Street and peeking into the rectory garden (if “rectories” are what they’re called in Catholic parishes), I noticed something giving me strong waves of joy and nostalgia--the smell of the air. John thought it might be the cereal factory, and it is a sort of a breakfast smell. I wonder what the yellow fields are across from our window. I don’t think it’s strictly wheat--it doesn’t smell like my dad’s farm. Maybe it’s just the scent of grass hay. Whatever plant or combination of plants it is (and I noticed it on the other side of Dorchester too, so I don’t think it’s just the cereal factory), it is very evocative--maybe even more so before I noticed it.

I was thinking too, how for an early bookworm like me, England is Storybook Land. The second-hand book sale in the church hall reminded me of it. The hedgerows and little fields, the narrow streets of the village, the market, the Church, the broad-faced farm woman in a skirt and wellies (even her tarty daughter with pink hair and a lip piercing), are all denizens of that land. It’s magical because I met it first in a book. The Pevinses England is just as fantastical to me as Narnia is. Even grimy, busy London is magic, from Oliver Twist to Sherlock Holmes to Mrs. Dalloway to Peter Wimsey to Rumpole to Inspector Dalgliesh. Who knows who I’ll run into next week in Baker Street or St. James Park or the Old Bailey or Whitechapel Road or Kensington SW1. A native could never have this sense of wandering into the world of Story. (Or maybe they could--maybe that’s one reason why people love Hardy so much--you can actually tramp out to look at the dairy where Tess met Angel, take a walk to see the church wall and stained-glass window she lay under and thought about noble ancestors long-gone.)

In the US a few places have that same sense of existing half in reality and half in story. Manhattan appeals to me because of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin (and the novels of S.J. Rozen and a hundred movies). Hoofing it through the West Eighties, I look up at the buildings and wonder which one has an upper floor full of orchids. Boston belongs to Robert Parker, Chicago to Sarah Paretsky, New Orleans (I admit it) to Anne Rice and her vampires. I sort of have that feeling about the Avenues in Salt Lake, since my own story is set there and exists in an imaginative Avenues overlaid on top of the real one.

But England is covered, leaf by leaf, with the pages of stories from even before I could read--Peter Rabbit, Rat and Mole, Christopher Robin, Wendy Darling and her brothers, Mr. Tumnus, Tom Bombadil, Arthur and Merlin. How fortunate I am to walk and breathe in my own body through the land of imagination.

July 30 John Delivers

Even with an early night, I needed (and took) a nap this morning after John and Linda left for the lectures. On Mountain Daylight Time we’re going to bed around 4pm and getting up for the day at midnight. I can’t tell if I’m tired from jetlag or tired from running around all day long. I must say, however, that trips with just John are much less tiring and stressful than trips with students. Maybe part of it is staying in one place for more than three days.

John gave his presentation today, on his students’ reactions to walking through Hardy country. The other presenter in his session was a Polish doctoral student from Yale, who discussed the imprinted emotional image in Hardy’s prose and poetry--it was a small group and even I made a comment (on “flashbulb memory,” e.g., where were you when you heard Kennedy had been shot. Oh right, none of you were born yet--well, I was five and in kindergarten, and all the teachers were crying and when I went home and told my mom she didn‘t believe me, and then she started crying too. I don‘t know what the equivalent would be now--the Challenger accident?)

Anyway, John discussed what happens in our groups of students with the mix of landscape, literature, group dynamics and personal stuff. It is a very potent mix. One question from the audience was, “ethically, how do you let students know ahead of time what they’re in for?” and the answer is that he can’t. Something different happens each time that is very hard to predict. We did discover the importance of frequent debriefing, even if people get sort of bored by it, and this last trip--UK07--had considerably less emotional drama (which was good, or at least safer). Anyway, it was an interesting talk and interesting discussion afterward. I decided I have a crush on Michael Irwin (I won‘t tell him that).

July 29 People

I know why John likes to come to this conference. It gives a very different view of England than the typical American experience of West End Theatre/ Tower of London/ changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Most of the attendees are older, if not elderly, with a scattering of earnest and ambitious young foreign scholars (one of the papers coming up is “Thomas Hardy’s Popularity in Iran”). John said the Hardy Society has made deliberate overtures to younger people recently, as their original membership is dying off. We have met young women from China, from Russia, from Dublin (still foreign I guess) several from America. There is a contingent of young French academics, usually smoking at the back door of the church.

But the most interesting people are the mid- to older English men and women. Our housemate at the B&B, for example, Linda, is a white-haired, energetic, and voluble woman who retired a few years ago with her husband and now lives in Spain. “We have one son in Brazil and one in Boston in America,“ she said. “It made it easier to leave England when the time came.” She has a rental car for the week--she brought us home from the concert last night in the rain, giving us a tour of Poundbury on the way. In fact, her previous home was in Poundbury, which is a planned community owned/administered by the Duchy of Cornwall--I‘ll have to take a photo of the ‘medieval‘ market hall, built four years ago. In England, Linda was active in Labour politics, and she is quite defensive of Tony Blair. “All those Old Labour socialists quit the Party practically the week he was elected because he didn’t put up the minimum wage to where they wanted it,” she said. “We’d been 18 years out of power, did they think he could do it all in an instant?” I met an Old Labour socialist on the coach yesterday, Julia, a lively woman on crutches (“I need a hip replacement that I’m avoiding”) with fuchsia lipstick and blue eye shadow who told me that she grew up listening to her Tory dad and socialist mum argue politics. “Labour’s not even Labour anymore,“ she mourned. “And of course with the war, we marched, but did Blair listen? No. People who voted Labour for generations don’t identify as Labour now. The Conservatives will sweep the next election.”

When people hear that we’re American, they often start a political conversation, then stop and inquire politely into our views before proceeding. I don’t know if or why Thomas Hardy readers are mostly left-leaning, or perhaps society-joiners in general are left-leaning, or maybe only Labour-types are speaking about politics at this conference (at least to Americans), or Brits know that not many of the 25% of Americans who support the current administration are visitors to England.

But the political talk is only casual--most of the conversation is wildly diverse, about the incredible range of interests and occupations of this group of people bound by a single passion. John met Margaret and David Graham last time he came to the conference. They are from Warwick, she a social worker and he a businessman who had a transformative experience as an older adult going back to University and is now an educational consultant. Last night at the concert I talked shop with her about disability assessments and diagnostic overlaps--why do attention deficit problems so often coexist with anxiety disorders? Or aspergers, dyslexia and anxiety? Rosemary also sat by me on the coach tour and talked about her bird-watching and truffle-hunting adventures with her (female) partner. She removed a spider that had wandered into Julia’s hair during the previous stop at a Tess site, and we discussed the differences in the common names of bugs and insects between rural Devon (where she is from) and rural Utah (for her, Daddy Long Legs is a sort of large annoying Mayfly, apparently, not the spidery creature with a round gray body and multiple bent legs that I thought it was). On hearing that we planned to travel to the fens, she recommended a book as background--“Waterland” by Graham Swift. Furze Swann himself is 87 years old or something, and perfectly mythological. This morning I decided to go the lectures with John, and heard a sharp and funny talk about Hardy and The Moon from Michael Irwin, director of the last conference, who with his grizzled hair and sideburns looks like a heavy-faced, bow-legged Welsh miner or a melancholy farmer. He spent five minutes discoursing “at the risk of chauvinism” on the superiority of the English word ‘moon’ to that of all other languages (even the French ‘le lune’ or whatever it is--as a part of his work he translates French opera into English and pays attention to the lengths of vowels and consonants). We also heard from Simon Gatrell, a British academic from the University of Georgia, on cross-dressing in Hardy’s novels (one sensed he may have a personal interest in the topic); and an argument for a more varied Hardy canon, with a passionate introduction to a less-read poem as both aesthetically superior and emotionally typical of Hardy. Maybe I’ll insert the poem, if I can find it on the web.

The Face at the Casement
If ever joy leave An abiding sting of sorrow, So befell it on the morrow
Of that May eve....
The travelled sun dropped To the north-west, low and lower, The pony's trot grew slower, And then we stopped.
'This cosy house just byI must call at for a minute, A sick man lies within it Who soon will die.
'He wished to marry me, So I am bound, when I drive near him, To inquire, if but to cheer him, How he may be.'
A message was sent in, And wordlessly we waited, Till some one came and stated The bulletin.
And that the sufferer said, For her call no words could thank her; As his angel he must rank her Till life's spark fled.
Slowly we drove away, When I turned my head, although notCalled; why I so turned I know not Even to this day.
And lo, there in my View Pressed against an upper lattice Was a white face, gazing at us As we withdrew.
And well did I divine It to be the man's there dying, Who but lately had been sighing For her pledged mine.
Then I deigned a deed of hell; It was done before I knew it; What devil made me do it I cannot tell!
Yes, while he gazed above, I put my arm about her That he might see, nor doubt her My plighted Love.
The pale face vanished quick, As if blasted, from the casement, And my shame and self-abasement Began their prick.
And they prick on, ceaselessly, For that stab in Love's fierce fashion Which, unfired by lover's passion, Was foreign to me.
She smiled at my caress, But why came the soft embowment Of her shoulder at that moment She did not guess.
Long long years has he lain In thy garth, O sad Saint Cleather: What tears there, bared to weather, Will cleanse that stain!
Love is long-suffering, brave, Sweet, prompt, precious as a jewel; But O, too, Love is cruel, Cruel as the grave.

[sorry about the formatting]

Part of it is that people are much more open here than in general life, because they assume the shared interest in all things Hardy. I remember during previous trips to the UK traveling on the train or waiting in a queue, the people most willing to make conversation were from South Africa or Canada or New Zealand. But today, standing waiting for John in the church hall/ 2nd-hand book sale/ coffee-break area, several people approached me in the most friendly manner, and even forgave me my lukewarm feelings for Hardy--after all, I‘m married to an aficionado. Actually, when I confess that I like Hardy’s poems better than his novels, and he‘s not even my favorite poet at that, quite a few spouses of both genders admit that they are here for their husband or wife and don’t like Hardy that much either. So I guess it’s another shared experience. Maybe it would be the same at a fly-fishing conference, or a workshop on playing the dulcimer.

The New Scorpion Band

We went to the Holy Trinity Centre to a concert by a local 5-member band. Their instruments included voice, drum, squeeze-box, piccolo, Irish bagpipes, bassoon, fiddle, accordion, mandolin, dulcimer, tuba, and others that I can‘t remember.The music sounded very current and alive, unlike the music of some Celtic bands. One of the songs was a Hardy poem set to music--I think it was the Trampwoman’s Lament--which was the only excuse the Hardy Society needed to sponsor the event. There was wine and juice and biscuits, and John and I visited with his acquaintances from previous conferences.

July 28 When Literary Enthusiasm Goes Too Far

Furze Swann took a captive coach-load of conference participants on a 5-hour death march around Tess sites. We drove miles and miles past the big and little dairies, listening to Furze read passages describing cows and barns and sheep fairs and hillsides, as our poor driver maneuvered past tractors and lorries. Here is the Wool Bridge, over which Tess and Angel walked after they married, and the site of their first fatal night together (fictional, of course). Hardy fans are as insane as any others, if not more so--we clustered around Furze as he pointed out relevant geographical spots from Bulburrow heights, and the day grew more and more hazy and hot. The air conditioning was inadequate, particularly in the back over the engine, where John and I were sitting, and feeling myself dehydrate (stupid blood pressure meds) I soon drank both my bottles of fluid. Four and ½ hours later, and no toilet in sight, the back row staged a mutiny, and the warden of the next church site (Rampisham Church, where Hardy accomplished his architectural apprenticeship by restoring the bell tower) allowed us to use the bathroom in his home.

Poetry and Celebrity

I walked into town for the readings at the United Reform Church on South Street. Furze Swann (“Furze” is such a great name--it is the old-fashioned Dorset version of the ubiquitous, thorny, yellow-flowered shrub called “gorse” in the rest of the British Isles) arranged more or less parallel pieces from his three favorite poets: Thomas Hardy, Edward Thomas (a WWI poet I‘ve never read), and Robert Frost. The readings were by three Royal Shakespeareans--Oliver Ford Davies, now playing Polonius in Stratford, Cheryl Campbell, and Harriet Walter, who played the brother’s greedy wife in Sense and Sensibility and my favorite, Harriet Vane in the BBC’s version of the Peter Wimsey stories. So I had my usual little thrill of celebrity insanity--I walked past all three on my way to the toilet after the program. (I’ve never actually touched a celebrity except my first, when Alan Rickman bumped into my knee at the Lyttleton Theatre on the south bank clear back before Harry Potter. I realized then that I had as much crazy fan girl makeup in me as anyone did).

History

We walked by a monument “In memory of those who suffered in Dorset in the religious troubles of the 16th and 17th Centuries,” many of whom were hanged, drawn, and quartered on this site. I should imagine, but don‘t know for sure, that many were Catholic. Of course they could have been Protestant too, depending on whether it was Henry, Mary, Elizabeth, or the Stuarts on the throne. It was interesting that the monument didn’t say which side anybody was on. It did say this:

It also quoted Robert Southwell, priest, “put to the torture thirteen times and executed in Tyburn 21 February 1595”:
“Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live;
Not where I love, but where I am, I die;
The life I wish, must future glory give.
The deaths I feele in present daungers lye.”

Durnovaria was surrounded by a wall, some of which exists 2000 years later. Here is a piece on the west side near the Borough Gardens:It is just the core of the wall, as "the smoother facing was used by locals for building in the middle ages." What would it mean to live in a place this old, so soaked in human history? Near the South Train Station are the Maumbury Rings, fortifications first built during the Stone Age, then made into a Roman amphitheatre, then used as a fairgrounds and an animal pen, and now a sort of public picnic area. Our students played Frisbee on/in them three years ago.

Walking, Eating, Sleeping

Dorchester is a very small place, maybe like Payson, Utah, but less spread out. It is the smallest county town (capital) in England. From Fordington on the East, where we went to church, to Poundbury on the west, is probably less than a mile and a half. Which is good, since I walked it three times Sunday and will probably walk it at least twice daily while we’re here, since I have not yet seen a number 31 bus, which is supposed to stop just down the street. Good exercise, up and down gentle hills. Its uphill to the B&B, and it’s so hot and humid I have to take off my clothes and stand still to dry off once I get back to our room. I think some of it is body temperature dysregulation from my blood pressure meds, a common side effect, (or maybe menopausal hot flashes just happened to hit right when I began this new prescription).

Anyway, I remember from previous trips how stripped down to basics one becomes when traveling like this. We had to remember to buy bread and cheese and fruit on Saturday, because last time we made an extended stay in Dorchester over the weekend (when Chris was eight years old), nothing was open on Sunday. I don’t think that’s actually true anymore, but we had a nice lunch in the Borough Gardens, on a bench as usual. Here is the town clock, and the bandstand, where there may be music and/or theatrical pieces later. John went on a walking tour of Dorchester sites and I walked back to the B&B to work on my novel, but fell asleep for four hours instead. Sleep like drowning in the heat. But I think I’m over jetlag.

July 27 Church

We were up early for the staggeringly--I don’t even know what to call it--various, nutritious, sustaining, and delicious, as cooked by our hosts--English breakfast, and then caught a ride with our housemate Linda (also here for the Hardy Conference) to St. George’s Church, Fordington, for Sunday morning service. It was interesting to attend a Church of England service in honor of the grumpy old agnostic. He apparently quit church in architectural offense over an addition to the bell tower, which he called the “pepper pot.” He probably would have objected to the lightning rod as well. This is a modern church, according to the pamphlet on its history, with the tower dating back only to the 1400’s, and most of the church 19th and 20th century, although built on Roman and Norman foundations. The windows were by William Morris and Edward Bourne-Jones.

In addition to the regular hymns and responses, this service included readings of Hardy prose and poetry about churches and church singing. The sermon was by an ecclesiastical woman from Canturbury who is a Hardy enthusiast here for the conference, who spoke with humor and sweetness. The priest also seemed funny and casual and sweet, while celebrating the high church rituals with reverence. Music was provided by the Beaminster Gallery Quire and players (viol, pipe, clarinet), in period costume. My favorite piece was a sped-up and lengthier version of the Old One Hundred, which I love anyway from childhood reading of “The Secret Garden” (the One Hundred refers to its number in the hymnbook, I realized today). The congregation, average age probably 67, stood and sang loudly and with vigor.

I made a video of the postlude music, which was a dance tune from the mid 19th century, hoping to upload it to the blog, but it looks like my little mini-computer can’t read my videos. Oh well, maybe when we get back.
I remember one of our Mormon acquaintances saying she envies the English their churches, and I know what she means. On a cold winter night, this church would have been foot-aching frigid, but on a hot summer morning, it was a cool oasis, a vaulted, echoing sanctuary from the world outside. I dumped all my change in the little bag they brought around during the collection, and now I don‘t have any money for the bus.

July 25-26 Travel

Traveling like this--yanked from one hemisphere and hurled across the ocean to another--does something very odd to my sense of person, place, and time. I am grateful for air travel. I would not look forward to floating for weeks or months in the lower decks of a small vessel, as the g-g-g-grandparents did, coming the other way, but I wonder if it was so very disorienting. We were silly in Houston, on our 4-hour layover, awake during the compressed night and morning in the air,and haggard by Victoria Station, waiting for our train to Dorchester.

Thirty hours after Betsy left us at the SL Airport, we were at our B&B in Poundbury, a mile out from Dorchester town centre. This is the view from our window. Somewhere just out of sight are the remains of Roman Poundbury Camp and aqueduct, which we will have to walk to and look at before we leave. Dorchester was Durnovaria two thousand years ago. I thought the streetlight was evocative of Narnia, except at night, when it is just another light in the eyes.

Whew

Six psych evals, eleven therapy sessions, three treatment summaries, one UPA pamphlet, billing to two agencies, and innumerable phone calls in the past three days. I am not used to working so hard. The last time I remember feeling like this (not enough time to sleep) was the second term of my doctoral program, when I thought I was superwoman and took 23 credit hours. Then it was in the service of my calling and career--this time it's in the service of 16 days holiday in the UK. John had to make all the arrangements--I'm just hoping to have time to do my laundry before we go. Oh yeah, and five more therapy sessions tomorrow, call my visiting teachees, make reservations for our Cedar City trip when we get back, set up Skype on our computers so we can talk to Chris while we're gone, pack, pay the household bills, vacuum, and cut the guys' hair.

But watch this site! Once I'm over sleep deprivation and jet lag, I'll post photos of beautiful Dorset. Or, London, Dorchester, Weymouth, London, Ipswich (or somewhere in the east fen country), Cambridge, and London again.

Maybe I'll rest when I get home.

News of the Week 7/20/08

The summer is flying by. Amy and Jamison moved into his mom Debbie's new house in Lindon this week, and we were sad to see them go. They will be able to stretch out a little there, I think, and more easily visit with Jamison's brothers from back east who are here on holiday. It was great to get to know Jamison better, and he certainly saw us at our normal condition, whatever that is (bathrobes, messy house, kitty crises, and all). Amy's working hard on the Chicago move. We're both so busy that we don't see or talk to each other much--I'm really going to miss her when she leaves next month.

Chris bought a used PlayStation and Guitar Hero III, and he so far hasn't done anything else this week. He says he's getting tired of it and might trade it back at GameStop at the mall for the money minus 20 percent. His way-cool pedal came, but he's still waiting impatiently for the guitar and amp to show up. He has to make up a foods class online before school starts (August 18), but he just growls at me when I mention it. Actually I think it would be fun. He is a good cook and interested in eating well. Maybe after he trades in Guitar Hero... I made him a copy of the car key, which he carries around on his belt loop, and uses to start the car if I leave him alone in it for a second. He is excited for drivers ed. I tried to warn him

but he doesn't listen.

John spent the end of the week at the Green Jacket ranch, cowsitting for Liz and Alan. He said it's still beautiful and green, because of the slow start to the season. He came back sunburned and tired, and said it was harder than he thought but he enjoyed it. I shouldn't complain about our little garden--what a huge job the Mitchell's have!

Chris and I missed the Vernon reunion last night, mostly because I am trying to finish the six psych evals I must send off before we leave for London on Friday. At least I've already done all the testing. I only have two more feedback sessions and then the writeups--oh, and a collatoral phone interview tomorrow with a family member for one of them. Five of the evals are for Voc Rehab and one is for the care center in Lindon. I am a slow report writer. Any kind of writing is a nervous business for me. I bite my cuticles and jiggle my feet and get up and pace and am very easily distracted away from actual work.

Dave and Devon sent photos around of their new loft in Philadelphia, where they will move on Sept 1. Maybe since Dave doesn't have a family blog, I will have to post the pictures here:

Dave is starting up a law practice and (as he said in his last message) blogging as the immigration specialist at this site beginning next month. Pretty exciting.

Rob and Nicolle are still deciding what exactly to do, I think. Last time I spoke on the phone with Rob, Nicolle was working at Tocanos in SLC, but I'm not sure how permanent that will be. Rob helped me build a new web site, Karla Bennion PhD, which is still sort of in the beta-phase until I get some photos and more text.

Next thing on my tech list is to invite J.Lynn over for lunch and have him help me order a new desktop, as my poor little 6-year-old Dell Inspiron laptop is totally outdated. The monitor went out, and I have it hooked up to a $10 used monitor from DI. My 2" by 4 and 1/2" external hard drive has more storage space than my main computer. (But the ASUS is sure fun. I took it to my office the other day and got onto somebody's unsecured wireless--should I feel guilty about that? is it dangerous? I take my 2 gb data stick with me and have every text file I've ever written in my life with 99% of the room to spare.)

Well, speaking of text files, I'd better get to the psych reports. My RS lesson went well today--this time I only had four questions and by pushing it a little got to three of them before the meeting was over. We do have a talkative congregation, which is good of course. Makes my job easier.

Grandpa's Birthday Party

We went down to the farm Friday afternoon to have a hotdog roast at the pavilion for Grandpa's birthday. It was a typical July day, so everybody was OK that we were a little late and waited into the cool of the evening to begin. Grandpa keeps the grass watered throughout the summer, and Pesi found the most relaxing place to be. Grandma enjoyed the party.
James shows how it is done--stick cooking is always better after the coals form.Damien and Teane relax after dinner.J.Lynn shows off his new motorcycle, a match to Tana's new scooter. They're following your lead, B&B.


Here's the honoree--76 years old and going strong. He says his knee hurts, but I didn't notice that it hindered him much.

We now have another July birthday to celebrate (besides Grandpa's and Colette's)--July 19 is Jessica's birthday.
On a geek note--I downloaded the photos and entered this blog post on my new ASUS. The only trouble is getting used to the littler keyboard and slightly different location of the keys. So I guess it's going to work for traveling. I'm so excited for our trip to England next week--I can send all the photos I'd like without lugging around a giant laptop and spending all my money at Internet cafes. As long as I can find free wireless access!

The Great Salt Lake

We had a fun time in the water. The lake wasn't any stronger smelling than the ocean, and the smell was not really noticable at all--maybe because we were out in the middle, on Antelope Island, and there's not much living out there but creatures adapted to salt water--brine flies and brine shrimp--whereas closer to the edges, the freshwater creatures are dying when they come in contact with the lake. The sun was getting lower, the day was hot and still, the water a comfortable temperature even for the babies.


Johnathan models the latest swimwear,

John floats,

(as do B&B),

and Chris impersonates Neptune, or a water sprite:

Colette in the Great Salt Lake

Warm and deep as a bathtub, absolutely still, soft, smooth bottom beneath your feet, tiny brine shrimp (that don't bite), interesting tastes and smells--what's not for a three-year old to like?

More Antelope Island

We set up camp on the northwest shore, and it was absolutely silent except for voices of the campers and an occasional cry of a seagull. If I listened closely, I thought I could hear a very faint undertone of traffic from very far away, and after dark we could see lights to the north, but otherwise we seemed far from civilization.

John cooked chicken tacos
while we set up tents.Everyone was hungry.Brett and Betsy like their tent.


Sunset on the Great Salt Lake.

Antelope Island

Brett and Betsy arranged an overnight car-camping trip to Antelope Island State Park on the Great Salt Lake. Rob and Nicolle and the babes went too. It's a beautiful, desolate, silent, haunting place, just a few miles from the suburbs of SLC. John, Chris, and Rob rode their bicycles, with the babies in Rob's cart,

while the rest of us were motorized. Colette and Johnathan wished they could ride Betsy's motocycle.

We saw antelope and buffalo.

Here we are watching the buffalo:
And here is a cool video of them running around--I think the bulls were chasing a heifer.