A welcome phone call

Friday 22 January 2010


My mobile rang in the car on the way home. 'Janine?' came a long-familiar voice.

I gasped. 'Shirley?'

It was my friend from HOH ringing from England. 'Hi hun!' she giggled.

'My God! You are phoning me! What on earth--?'

'I couldn't wait till FaceBook, love!' she squealed. 'Did you get your letter?'

'My--' Then I gasped.

'It's not what you think,' she said. 'But as soon as I got mine I rang them this afternoon to ask after you.'

'Me!' I was still in shock that she was ringing me from Norwich.

'They're not emailing it,' she said. 'They've posted them all. Yours will be a few days then. I hope I shan't spoil it by telling you--'

'Tell me!' By now Jessy was staring at me in the car.

'Well, love.... It's Pemb.'

I held my breath. Pembroke College. 'Honestly,' I said quietly, to be sure.

'Yes, love. I even checked-- we're in Foundress Court. The icky building, but it's where they put first-years, you know.'

I was shivering. 'I can't believe it....'

Shirley giggled. 'Was I wrong to ring you then?'

'No! Oh, no... love. I love it. I just....'

'I'm sorry it's not St John's,' she said, 'but it was our backup and they seem very eager. I did speak with the director a little about you....'

'Oh, Lord. What did he say?'

She giggled. 'Oh, plenty. And that we must do a duet at the piano, for the Michaelmas bop. He says it'll be expected of you. I'm afraid your father's reputation does precede you.' And she giggled again.

'So....' I drew a breath. 'We're really in.'

'Yes, love. We're really in.'

I shivered all over, right there in the car. I mean I felt like I was about to wet myself. 'We're in,' I whispered, and Jessy's eyes went wide. 'We're in.'

'I suggested they ring you, since you'll be getting your notice last of all,' Shirley said. 'Unless they've already rung your family today. It's eight here now; I reckon they're closed now.'

'Yes, of course,' I said. 'Well, look, love,' I said then, 'let me text you on FaceBook as soon as I get home. We're in the car.'

'The big green car?'

'Um... yes.'

'You must promise me a ride in that car, for when I come,' she said.

'That you may be assured of,' I smiled. 'And anything else you want. You are... a dear, sweet girl.' And I blotted my eye.

'I adore you, Janine. Oo, I can't wait till this spring!'

She is coming to visit over her spring break. We've already planned it. 'I can't either. Give your sister a hug for me.'

'And Jessy for me,' she said.

I reached over and caught Jessy's hand in the car. 'Absolutely.'

Of course there was an expected reaction at home, involving lots of squealing and cheering-- Daddy had got the call and already knew. 'Now comes the fun part,' he said-- meaning the sending of cheques for housing, postadmissions testing, books, tuition, and of course air fare-- but we will probably all go over in late August just to see me settled there. This is a dream come true for me and I cannot sit still even now.

The princess of Terncote is accepted at Cambridge. Eeek!

...

Four degrees of separation

Tuesday, 5 January 2010

I have to admit I get a lot of friend requests on FaceBook. And I turn most of them down. For those who don't know what this means, it's that all FaceBook accounts are private by default. No one can see more than the first page and your most basic information (name and where you are from) without your approval. If a FaceBook member wants to chat with you, share pics with you, learn who your other friends are, and get other benefits of knowing you in the online world, he or she sends you a confidential request and you are able to approve the contact with the person or not. (AOL's Bebo tries to be like this, but that's another issue-- don't get me started on that).

I just think that I don't need to enter into a whole bunch of online friendships with people I scarcely know, or, in some cases, don't know at all. For example, one of my friend's boyfriend became my friend on FaceBook-- I know the guy at school, I do talk with him in the real world, you know. But since I approved him on FaceBook somehow his cousin in Ohio became my FaceBook friend and then some guy him my friend's boyfriend's cousin's band became my friend on FaceBook too. I mean-- he doesn't even play the kind of music I like (sounds like barf in a bowl to me). Why do I have to correspond with this person?

Two years ago when I was in England I first got a FaceBook account, and I made a rule for myself that if I did not know the person myself, personally, I would deny the FaceBook friendship request. Then someone came up to me at school and told me her boyfriend said I was a snob for turning down a friend request from his roommie and so he (the boyfriend) thought maybe they (he and my friend) shouldn't hang out with me any more. This threatened to blow up into a full-scale social war till I said, 'Can I just approve him so we can move on?' And it did sort of calm things, although that's not really how I really wanted it to go, you know. And then of course the roommie (who was 18) sent me (who was 16 then) some inappropriate photos of himself and passed my then email address on to some friends of his (also at least 18) who did the same thing, till I had to change my email address and block him, and his friend, and anyone else that I had accepted on FaceBook whom I didn't really know... and, of course, shortly after this began my friend broke up with her boyfriend for an unrelated reason anyway. So I had my friend's ex-boyfriend, his roommie, and their friends, all sending sweet little Janine the peacemaker all these messages and emails and photos and friend requests for other sites-- and all incidentally very interested in finding out my current dating status as well (I was dating Henry then, but I digress). All this... and I had never met the guy (the boyfriend's roommie) face-to-face, and he shows me his private parts in photos and then hates my guts for being such a priss because I reject him. What a piece of work is a man!

So... I do not share my FaceBook site with people on AOL. AOL is my chance to chat online with no strings attached. I am 'me' on AOL, same as anywhere, only I do not connect AOL to my FaceBook page which has my photos and family photos and family news and favourite music and current updates in my life, and it names names and places and dates, and so on and so on. My FaceBook page is appropriate-- there's nothing naughty on it at all-- it just represents more of my real-world life than my AOL/Bebo page does, and it's for my friends, not the strangers (by comparison) I meet on AOL. If you are one of my AOL friends I'll apologise if that offends our disappoints you, but I won't change my policy on it... and please don't expect to be made the exception.

The other day I received a very disturbing IM from someone on AOL who referred to my FaceBook page. It seems he has been trolling FaceBook recently for any pics that look like me to see if he can identify me, and he finally found me on someone else's FaceBook page and was soon able to identify all my friends on the same page. And then-- you guessed it-- he sent friendship requests to everyone he could find who was somehow connected to mine. And so my friend's friend's classmate approved the friend request from this quasi-stalker, obviously without knowing he had sent friend requests to several other people too. And so, I got an IM on AOL from someone who knows my last name and where I live and what my dad does and what my stepmother looks like (from sites from other people who are friends with me). And he said in the IM, 'Hey Janine! Nice bikini!' --and referred to the photo on the friend's friend's site. The photo is of me at the beach in NJ with my friend, and her friend, and so ended up on my friend's friend's site, tagged with all our names as they are on my friend's site. (As far as I know it's the only one of me she has there. One is enough.)

A lot of people would think this is harmless. Of course I am not ashamed of being on this girl's site-- I am actually on a LOT of people's sites whom I do not know, because my friends have tagged me on their (my friends') photos and their friends get the same photos, and maybe THEIR friends get the same photos too. I am on a lot of bands' sites for being their legitimate FaceBook friend, and as I have said before I have been recognised at some band's shows from being seen on the band's FaceBook page. It is the price you pay on FaceBook for having your face out there. But it's clear that now some guy from Texas who's on AOL now knows how to find me on FaceBook-- because of of these simpleminded twits on FaceBook approved a 25-year-old online stalker, probably because he seemed like a cute older guy (and he's not really that cute, but...).

All right, I am naive and innocent, but I am not stupid. I deleted his friend requests on Bebo and FaceBook without a response, blocked his IMs on AOL and untagged myself (took my name off the photos) on some other people's sites. Already some people have said I am harsh and self-centred and conceited (mostly people on FaceBook, and in places where I can't delete the comments) because of it. So I'm saying this in an open letter to AOL/FaceBook users who like me enough to read my blog. If I don't know you, please don't keep my face and name on your site like we're friends. Not all FaceBook contacts are true 'friends', just acquaintances, and mostly not even true acquaintances since we've never actually met (nor even exchanged IMs or messages on FaceBook). I'm a face to which you know the name, and that's all. I could as well be Taylor Swift or Demi Lovato for all you know of me, really. Don't obligate me like a friend by saying the famous Janine is on your page.

And that goes for AOL Buddy Lists too!

...

Nancy's buppies

Sunday, 27 December 2009

Our Gran hs made a tradition of sending Jessy and me to the theatre in Philadelphia at least once or twice a year, suspending it only when we were in England (and then making up for it with two shows each year since). This year we were presented with tickets for 'Oliver!' at Walnut Street for this Sunday. It meant that we would miss church, but we had had Mass at Christmas Eve and anyway it's not like we ever miss Mass so much at all. So at 7.30 on Sunday morning Jessy and I were in the back of the dark-green Cadillac cruising up Route One towards New Jersey. I sat in the back as usual and Jessy leaned over the fold-down armrest till she was asleep with her head on my arm. Roger (Daddy's driver) stopped at McDonald's for us to get hot cocoa and that was very comforting.

We collected Gran at our uncle's house in southern New Jersey and owing to some traffic we got into the city at only half an hour before show time. Roger stopped at the kerb and hurried round to let us out. Fortunately there was a bus of pensioners getting out directly ahead, so we were not the reason for holding up traffic in the street. The tickets Gran got were not bad, near the centre of the upper tier. Walnut Street, the oldest continually-operating theatre company in America, is not a large place and you have to pretty much endure whatever's available. The acoustics, however, were excellent, which is a good thing since this presentation actually used REAL children in the children's parts-- they don't always do that, you know.

The show was really good, except for one or two things I didn't like at all. One was that the actor playing Fagin seemed uncomfortable acting in a 19th-century London accent. He sang well, but his first few lines seemed stiff. Then at the end he gave the plea for donations for the theatre and quite adeptly slid out of his accent, kind of as a joke, to speak as himself, and we all laughed. By that point his accent had improved.

The other thing I did not care for was the woman playing Nancy, an actress called Janine Davita. First of all, she was too old. The actress is about 35 and the character of Nancy is 18. The problem is that the precedent is Shani Wallis, playing her in the movie, who was 35 at the time but looked easily no more than 21. The actress in the movie playing her sister, Bet, was 18 playing 16, a closer fit of course. Shani Wallis carries it off because she is naturally petite, well-shaped, youthful-looking and incredibly versatile physically. Most importantly the red dress that Nancy always has to wear in any production of 'Oliver!' stayed put on her, which is more than I can say for what Janine Davita was wearing.

Maybe it was just the angle we had from the edge of the mezzanine, but we could see directly down into the top of her dress. And, since it's supposed to be a real 19th-century dress, and Nancy is supposed to be a prostitute, she doesn't wear appropriate undergarments... so let me say that there was a bit more than modest cleavage showing! Oh, we could laugh and say it's only what the poor woman looks like, so don't hold her responsible for God's handiwork, you know. But some costumer did pick the dress, and they had to have been aware of what it would look like from a higher angle. Worst of all she kept picking up children and holding them close and swinging them round, you know, so that was something the theatre company had to come to terms with as well.

I have mentioned before that my pretty young stepmother is originally from Queensland. And we all know that Australia was settled by Irish emigres, mostly from London, so the accents are similar. What I have not mentioned before is that, when she and Daddy were first married-- actually right after Lisa was born-- Mother had the chance to act in a local/regional production of 'Oliver!' -- something Daddy encouraged her wholeheartedly to do. And, being a talented singer, young, petite, Australian, blonde, and buxom as she is, what part do they give her? --Nancy the teenaged prostitute in the red dress. I am sure that never was anyone cast in that role who was so unlike the character in real life! But Mother, of course, completely rocked the role. I mean, she was stunningly good at it-- all the singing, dancing (something she never likes doing), acting, speaking, emoting, all of it. Of course she is exceptionally intelligent (having a true genius IQ) which is always a good thing. She is infectiously cute, being little more than 5 ft 1 in tall, but has a strong soprano voice and when she sang 'As Long As He Needs Me' she did not refrain from a single note of how it's usually sung. Daddy said he wept to see it (that is his favourite song in the show). And, of course, she fit into the dress.

I think that since Shani Wallis (who was really not as buxom as she looked in the costume, being somewhat bumped-up to have a certain effect) the actress playing Nancy has to be a little obvious in the bustline. This is after all the archetype of the 'hooker with a heart' role that comes up in westerns and other stories over the years since Dickens wrote 'Oliver Twist'. So there is a certain maternal instinct that has to be apparent in the character of Nancy (that sadly will go unfulfilled, as she dies without children herself) and that is best shown on stage by making her look like a young mother, or a young woman who is ripe and ready to be one. She becomes the first mother to Oliver that he has ever own, and by the end of the story he loves her as his own mother since he will never have another mother himself. Indeed Nancy gives her life to save Oliver's, something only a mother, not a mere prostitute, would do. So in a way, theatre companies over the years, since 1963 anyway, have traditionally cast Nancy with a rather buxom young-looking woman in a snug-fitting bright-red bodice (and purple stockings, which also is symbolic).

So you will forgive me if I compare Janine Davita's performance to that of Shani Wallis and also that of my stepmother, both of whom I think were more appropriately cast and better attired than she was. Oh, do not mistake me-- Mother (my stepmother) wore the bright-red dress (and purple stockings) with all the suggestive sexiness she was supposed to have, and the dress was low-cut and it fit just right and with the Cockney accent coming out of her own East Anglia-tinged Australian she appeared to do Shani Wallis (who was Irish-English) better than anyone could have imagined. We have the videotape (now lovingly archived to CD) to prove it. (And may I say that when she screams at the end, as Bill Sykes is beating her to death, it brought up tears of horror and sympathy in everyone present, all eight shows, every time. Mother screams rarely-- almost never-- but really well!)

Jessy was the one who said it to me in the car ride home, after we had taken supper with Gran in the city and dropt her off at her place. 'I think you could play Nancy,' she said.

'Me? No way.'

'Yes, you little liar, you know you would. You can do the accent-- really well actually. And you've got the look for it.'

I shrugged. 'And I'm the right age.'

'You're exactly the right age. And you've got the singing voice for it.'

'Oh, I do not.'

'Yes, you little liar, you do.'

'And whom would you be? Bet?'

Jessy shrugged. 'I would like to play Bet,' I said.

'You saw in that show how they gave her more singing and dancing parts,' I said.

'Yes.'

'And you are the right age... and you have the right look.'

'And you have the look for Nancy.'

I looked down at myself. We always dress up for the theatre, at least better than most people do. I wore the black sweater I got for Christmas and a little olive skirt and black leggings (not tights) and my high black boots. It's a good look for me. But I hadn't thought anyone would care too much to look at my figure like this. But, then again, Jessy knows me. 'I'd rather not be cast in something just because of my look,' I said.

'Yes,' Jessy said, 'though that's how they often cast people. And a singing audition. The rest is just... je ne sais quoi.'

I slumped down in the seat and thought. It is true I have sung 'As Long As He Needs Me' as a solo, most notably at the talent show at HOH, after several of us had gone to see a regional production of 'Oliver!' in Norwich. It is true that I do love that show, and know it all by heart. It is true that I can do a really good British accent, several different ones in fact, and, though the Cockney is probably my least skillful, I can certainly learn it. And I am the right age-- the same age as the character-- and I am not so terrible at acting that a company would shrink from casting me due to inexperience.

And, as it would appear, I have the figure for the snug-fitting red bodice, at least more appropriately than Janine Davita does... so maybe there's something in that after all.

...

Some politically-unfavourable musings

Friday 11 September 2009

There was an announcement at school today during second period in observance of the 2001 tragedy, asking us to take our one minute of silence in remembrance. we did this last year too. At HOH in England we did not, but it was often discussed. Many Americans do not know how much solidarity the British feel towards Americans in their times of struggle and conflict. They really are America's staunchest ally. I just wish people would remember that.

In European history we began talking about the Angles and Jutes and Saxons. The class will skip all over, but it begins with Britain, moves round Europe, and ends with the 1939-1945 War ('World War II' to you Americans!). Remembering the 9/11 discussions at HOH I think about how little Americans really know about history beyond their own borders. It's a shame really. I have read 'Finest Hour', written when Mr Churchill was resigning from public office and thought he had no more political career ahead of him. He was the sort of man who would not have written a book like that if he had not believed he could have been objective about it. His true story establishes very clearly that Britain fought singlehanded against the Japanese, the Vichy French, the Fascist Italians and the Nazi Germans on five fronts for two and a half years before ANY appreciable aid came from America. And all through his book Mr Churchill pleaded with Mr Roosevelt for any help at all, and when it doe snot come he cautions the American president that when England falls, the Nazis will be at Boston and New York. He makes plans to take the king and Parliament to Australia as an exile government, fully anticipating that Britain could not hold out against such an enemy indefinitely. The surprising part was that, even though Britain was depleting resources, they were still holding off the enemy threat when the Americans did arrive. It is an amazing TRUE story that, I am sad to say, most Americans either don't know, don't care about, or don't want to believe. And sadder still is that so many Americans don't appreciate the support Britain has give them over the years.

I honestly do not know where to fit myself in this debate any more. I consider myself both British and American now, for my heritage and education (and preferences) include both places equally influential on my feelings and thoughts. I feel appalled that so many in America support 'multiculturalism' and 'diversity', but let an English person step into their group, or let someone suggest that being English is also an 'ethnic group', and he is shut up straight away. If every opinion is valid, if America is truly tolerant and relativist and liberal, why then are the English the only group that it's permissible to bash? --actually, they are the only group you are supposed to bash. It's never considered bad taste to insult the British-- why is that? What if that happens to be someone's family heritage? I suppose it means I am just another conservative white Anglo-Saxon Protestant-- the least privileged subculture group in America. I don't deserve any special rights like everyone else has. Supposedly I am the enemy of equal rights.

Yes I will probably end up at Delaware... but issues like this one make me long for UEA even more.

...

First day of school (again)

Wednesday, 9 September 2009

I got up early and put on the skirt I bought in Chelsea, which is a mottled grey, almost like moleskin, kind of short, really nice-- and it was marked down. I wore that with plain white tights (it was chilly) and a dark-green sleeveless top and a white shirt on like a cover-up (meaning not closed). Roger would drive us in together in the Cadillac.

Of course at the school there were oodles of people milling round the place, all catching up on what happened in the summer and son on. Josie was there and hurried up to us as we arrived. Her mother had driven her in (she doesn't have a car yet). She had asked us to pick her up, but of course that was not feasible since she lives on the other side of the high school from us, you know. So as we stepped out of the car and thanked Roger for holding the door we already had a sort of audience.

I am sure the new freshmen were the ones who stared at us. They do not know us yet. I hope they will make the effort-- we surely will try to befriend them too. The girls' club will need a couple of new members when Becky and I graduate! Josie fawned over the skirt (she's seen it before) and Jessy's whole ensemble, a cute dress in dark gold and navy with navy tights and her gold (so they look) shoes. The one good thing about the first day is that no one will be dressing for PE, so it's all right to get a little fancied up, you know. I mean-- Jessy and I had both done our this morning.

We walked in to the building with Josie, and then Paula and Rita, and then Becky, so we were like a posse. These cliques are something I always hated-- till I found myself in one! But, as I have said before, if we are a clique at least we try to be a happy and well-dressed one, you know-- and we do make friends. It's part of the club code.

My schedule this year is terrible and I have already decided to see guidance about changing it. First of all, I do not need physics-- I had enough science at HOH and the counsellor here did not consider that when she wrote my schedule. Second, I am stuck with the dreaded 6th-period lunch, normally the rowdiest period to have it because it is most common. 4th and 7th are nearly empty and my sister and most of our friends are in 5th again. So I will ask to drop physics and take something-- anything-- that's 6th period so she will change my lunch. Then, if I hate it, I will adopt a 6th-period study hall and keep the 5th-period lunch... because they won't let me change my lunch just to be with people I prefer.

I have British literature 1st, PE 2nd, art 3rd (which I suppose is lucky since I can arrive at less than my best, even a little late if needs be, and have all of 3rd to clean up for the day, you know), calculus 4th, choir 7th and European history 8th. In both European history and British lit I am signed up for AP. Daddy calls this 'appropriate cheating' --since I have had both these courses at high-school level before, because of where I went during 9th and 10th grade. This school did not want me to stick me into 10th-grade English just for the sake of having world lit, especially when my schedule also called for European history, which satisfies the core requirement for a 'multicultural' class. So knowing this material at least adequately will put me in a good place to have the AP test in May. I am actually looking forward to it already.

Speaking of college credit I am probably going to Delaware. I contacted them last week and indicated my preference, which puts me in the candidate queue, and they have already conditionally accepted me. I will see how my SAT scores from October 10th help me and then make my final decision in time for the typical November cutoffs.

At lunch we all sat at the same table we had last year. This is pretty typical here. A few people came round and asked, 'How does it feel to be a senior?' I never know how to answer that and really didn't say anything to it at all. Some people asked me why I sat with 'all the juniors'. But these are my friends as well as my sister's. This year we have Becky, me, Rita, Josie, Jessy and Paula all in 5th-period lunch again. Two other girls who are seniors have already enquired about joining the club. We will let them in, of course, but they will not be what we have been called 'growth members' because they'll get stuck with seniors' disease after about February and be of little help. I have pledged to keep the club a priority and Becky has too, but though we will not turn down eligible members we are not counting on recruiting seniors. The weight of the club's future success rests with Jessy and her classmates and the ones who are younger.

After school we all went in to Onancock and met for ice cream. It was a pleasant outing-- most of us were nicely dressed. Roger took us, with Rita and Josie, in the big car. The other girls of the club were there too. Whilst we sat there under the umbrella some guys walked by, saw the car sitting at the kerb, and sort of ogled us. I suppose this is to be expected. I was happy with the skirt and got plenty of nice comments on it all day.

The other girls are sort of jealous of our friendship with Lady B. Jessy and I had been reporting on our summer and had mentioned her. 'Do you mean she is a real lady?' Becky asked. 'Like, "her ladyship" and all that?'

I smiled at that. 'Yes, she married a baron. Although she was "the honourable" before that.'

'What's that?' Becky asked.

'It's another title. Her father was a baron too.'

'Ohhh. How do you get to meet someone like that?'

'She's an old friend of Daddy's,' I told her. 'She invested in a project of his a long time ago.'

They were impressed by this. But really to Jessy and me she is just a friend, almost like a fairy godmother really, for she has no children of her own and sort of dotes on us whenever we are over there. The girls at HOH were impressed when she drew up in her Roller (yes, a real Roller) and met us at school one afternoon. As wealthy as some of those girls are, not all of their parents have drivers for their Rollers, you know. But Lady B never makes an issue of any of that.

'She approved of this skirt,' I said. 'She's very hip, like that.' And she is.

When we finally got home it was nearly 5.00. Jessy got undressed and flopped onto her bed with the laptop to fill in her FaceBook blog and iChat with people. I dove into the pool and did my (belated) 25 laps. Then-- as you would know it-- I started on my homework.

Calculus. I've got to hate it.

...

Labor Day weekend at the Shore

5-6 September

I always have three problems (let's call them 'issues') with this weekend. The first is that, having spent two years in England, I feel like I never know how to spell it. (That's easy. I spell it like it is observed. It's not an English holiday.) The second is that I don't really know what it's for. If America really wanted to honour the working person, they would levy lower taxes on him and enable him to keep more of his own money for retirement or the costs of living... but maybe I digress. The third reason is that it's a sad observance of the end of summer vacation.

Jessy, Josie and I have been very dutiful about getting up and going off to work these three mornings in our cute Colonial outfits. Josie has got used to the routine already-- walking down the street at 6.30 am with fishermen and joggers saying hello and then serving breakfast in the quaint little building all morning. Our menu is very abbreviated-- you can get eggs, of course, bangers (sausage) usually, pancakes or waffles always. We add or subtract to it to lend the flavour of a real 1750s-era establishment-- on Sunday we imposed a ruse that we were out of orange juice. It was my idea this time-- but we do it a lot. If you think about it, how would a small breakfast shop in New Jersey in 1750 have got orange juice anyway? It would have to have come up in the form of fresh oranges from His Majesty's colony of Georgia, and by ship, which would have been fastest, and so all you'd need is one bad storm or a few desperate pirates and that ship was not going to arrive. Any citrus product would otherwise have been impossible to have here, then. And so I went out as acting hostess and explained to people.

'Terribly sorry, Ma'am, truly I am; but our ship has not got in, and what with the traffic yesterday,and the day before, and we have all but run out of the orange fruit. Might I suggest the tomato? --for we have got plenty of it; and we know not when we shall see another shipment of the orange, if we are to see it at all this season.'

This is usually met with groans and whines, not amusement. One man said-- not respectfully-- 'You could go across the street and buy some!'

To which I replied, 'Oh, but surely we would not get any bargain on it now, this late in the season; and if he should see our situation for what it is, I am sure he would only take us for it. And we have got the tomato-- grown right here in our own territory, Sir-- why not a cheery glass of that instead?'

The man groaned and waved me off like a pesky gnat then. I am used to it. And obviously, in New York he is used to getting anything he wants when he wants it-- why then did he come to an old-fashioned place noted for old-fashioned service?

The truth was that we only had half of one half-gallon of orange juice left in the refrigerator-- details that will NOT go along with our 1750s-period act!

After cleaning up we find ourselves walking down the busiest street at the busiest time of day, sometimes in the costumes. On Saturday we changed into swimsuits at the shop and walked up to the beach directly. It was a lovely day, sunny and not too hot, and we frolicked in the water and lay on our towels and had a very pleasant afternoon. We were not besieged by any impertinent older men and in fact met some nice boys whilst we were out in the water. They had a ball and started this three-way catch game in which they had to throw it very close to the three blonde girls from Virginia in order that they might have a closer look at them-- but the girls from Virginia retaliated, seizing the ball at the first opportunity and playing keep-away-from-the-boys as long as they could... so there. They asked us to a party for the evening but we said we had to work, and then they did not believe that we all worked at the same place and that we were only trying to be rid of them. We did not tell them where we worked-- that would have invited disaster. There is nothing worse than when some guy comes in to the shop when we are in costume and serving 'in period' and tries to pick us up. The worst, according to me stepmother who worked there when she was young, was when they would linger outside after closing, lying in wait as it were for when she would emerge. For at least the first season she stayed in the little apartment up stairs and so did not come out at night, which frustrated them. One older man who stalked her that summer walked circles round the building between 11.30 and midnight, insisting to himself that she must have got away from him. That was the guy who became a problem for her later.

We had no such problems because Dottie, our manager, insisted on driving us home both nights.

On Sunday we left the place at 11.30 in the morning, in our costumes, and Josie wanted to play mini golf, so we did-- just like that. Of course being so dressed we always run into people who stare at us like we're Mennonites or just weird, or else recognise us from the shop. For the interested we always carry with us coupon cards to pass out, offering half-price on a sundae for the evening (you don't want to give too much away, and we give out a lot of those cards. It keeps the place full). All three of us were barefoot-- the booties are usually awkward to walk fast in and also too hot. The guy at the mini golf place knows Jessy and me and was happy to watch us play through in our long skirts and cute bodices and hair up under bonnets. (Fortunately the skirts are long enough that we can bend over to retrieve the coloured ball and not worry about having on no underwear!) We played just ahead of a mother with two little girls who just gazed up at us like we were real-life Disney princesses. We gave them each a coupon card (the mother included). They promised to show up that evening.

It rained a little on Sunday afternoon, clearing up just long enough for us to run (barefoot) back to the shop and open for the evening. Daddy showed up by himself, having just got in, checked up on things in the kitchen, offered to take the deposit and then just hung round outside, shaking hands and so on. People recognise him, so he's kind of an asset even though he doesn't always buy something. I think he got a sundae eventually. I was behind the counter most of the evening, but the mother and two little girls from the golf place showed up at the window round 8.00 and I made sure to remember them, you know. They sat outside. Jessy tended tables out there and once I saw her showing the little girls the costume, letting them feel the natural fibres and explaining to them how the bonnet ties and all. They were fascinated by her. Josie worked the verandah with one of our other girls and we had another, and sometimes Jessy, in the main room. At at least two different times the whole place was full-- even outside. And we had a queue almost to the street at the window a few times. Normally we count on almost two thousand a night, including takeaway. Tonight we were well over that. Dottie said it was due to we girls working so hard. I said it was due to a winning business strategy that, yes, includes girls in cute costumes who work so hard. And this income was made in spite of imposing an 'embargo' (as it is called within doors) on strawberry ice cream ('out of season'), bananas (we don't do that much in banana splits anyway, and it's a foreign fruit) and ginger ale, which we were really just about out of and so had to push root beer, the only other soda we serve here. The contrived shortages add to the colour of the place and remind modern people that, once upon a time, a place like this was on the very fringe of survival because of its location and its chosen trade. No shop of this size, on a barrier island in New Jersey, would have been able to sell as much ice cream as we do in 1750-- that's a suspension of disbelief for every customer thinks he is the only one to be so well treated. We don't have to tell them we made over three thousand dollars tonight.

Daddy, Mother, Lisa and J.J. are here for the night but it was very late when we got in from walking up the beach in our costumes and bare feet. My good linen skirt is soggy and sandy and nearly fraying round the hem, but I will leave it like that for tomorrow because, after all, it's only in period. Then I will collect all my things out of the locker at the shop-- three skirts, four bodices, four shifts, two or three bonnets, a bedjacket (short cover-up) and about six pairs of cotton/wool stockings, plus the booties and slippers, and take my things home for the season. I will mend what I have to, undoubtedly make a few new things for myself, and use them for reenactments at Williamsburg and other places till the shop opens next year. Tuesday we drive home, after a day at the beach. Wednesday we start school.

[sigh] I wish summer would last longer.

...

More intense decompression

Thursday, 27 August 2009

Under threat of a drizzle I came inside and am sitting here in my room, my usual room, up stairs at Terncote in Virginia. It has been a very dizzying three weeks! But England is always England and that is the best part about it, so it is worth any amount of airplane rides and waiting in queues. Daddy said once, after his first tour there, in the '80s, that there'll always be an England because people in England say that there'll always be an England. Or, as people would say now, it is what it is. And that is why you go to see it.

A few things changed in the year since we were there last. Of course the house we had taken is let again, this time to a nice American doctor and his wife whom everyone knows and likes. It is a lovely all-brick multi-gabled house from about 1870 with a red-gravel garden walk and a bright blue door above which is the room Jessy and I had for two years. There is a dovecote in the eave, there are mice in the garage and rabbits live under the back steps. In back is a garden that trips down gentle terracing to the preserve, which is mostly overgrown behind the house but spreads out into a marvellous copse of wild fruit trees and thick green grass. I used to wander out there by myself and take off my clothes and inhale the sweet wet fragrances of the woods, and it was like I was getting high on the whole idea of being there, being naked, being free and happy, and being myself (which of course is how I am since we have come back and have lived here). Once on a fine English summer afternoon I lay down naked in a bed of that thick grass and stared up through a few gaps in the trees at the clouds passing by, and I was there over an hour like that till I realised people would be wondering about me. It is a unique memory-- for I only ever got to do that once-- and something I know only I will ever appreciate. But it is the kind of innocent indulgence that Jessy and I do here, now, and I know that no one else really fully understands it.

Our friends from HOH have all moved along with their lives-- some are dating new people, some are not dating any more, some have left the school, which is very sad. English schools thrive on people being committed to them, but it is always a case of 'school choice' as it is called here, and there are always times when someone leaves before 5th or 6th year and is missed horribly. Even less welcome, I did run into Henry, the boy I dated during 4th and part of 5th year, who is a year older and having completed 6th form, with honours, moves on to university. 'You look well, Janine,' he said to me. I blushed (WHY?). I do look well. From so much sun I am tanner and my face is clearer and I am probably a little better shaped, but his opinion can't possibly matter to me now. Still I suppose it was inevitable we would meet, if only at the food court in the shopping arcade, and I handled it as well as I could have. My journal from that time is still kept in handwritten notes and is not on this computer. I let my stepmother read it once and she got as far as the part when Henry was petting me under my skirt and I had not said 'no' yet, and she put it away and said, 'No, thank you, Janine!' I giggled at that at the time because her journal, most of which she has let me read, is somewhat racier than mine could ever have been (I won't say in what way!) and like hers mine is only honest and accurate, you know. I felt at the time that Henry's 'attempts' (for no, he was never successful in what he wanted from me) were important enough to be included. Now when I look back on it it's pretty embarrassing. This happens to girls all the time, and it's little more than a mild nuisance, and here I was in my journal making it into a momentous occasion. But it was a first for me, and at the time I had wondered how it would be, for the rest of my life, to be able to say that a not-so-blessed event had taken place during my family's two-year stay in England... and how many girls could have said that?

I consider that such an event would have been much worse than 'not so blessed' and it didn't happen there and hasn't here either, and, since Henry has no way of knowing that, I revel in his uncertainty. He may accuse me of 'going back to my own kind' all he wants now. What I have gained from having lived there far outweighs what I would have lost had I followed his wishes.

Also I had on a great little pale-green twill skirt and my sleeveless navy cotton top and looked great that day in the arcade (Jessy said some other guys were watching me). So Henry can suffer.

Speaking of Jessy she did-- well, after we had arrived at Lady B's- let me know that a certain little-more blessed event had taken place when she went in to change and wash up in the airplane toilet on the way over. We had taken a change of things for the ride, just to arrive feeling fresh. I had not really taken advantage of it, feeling much too sleepy (I napped in Lady B's car halfway up the A11) and you know the experience of getting out of everything in the tiny airplane toilet just to change your panties is just too much effort. Last time I tried it I bumped the latch on the door and it opened (only a little) and that was too disconcerting to forget this time. But Jessy climbed past my seat and went in there with her little bag, and of course, being Jessy, she took much more advantage of the opportunity than I had expected. She told me that night in bed.

'You didn't!' I said.

She nodded, somewhat proud of herself.

'That's why you were in there so long?'

'It almost didn't come,' she said. 'And then it got frustrating.'

'You didn't have to!' I said.

'Yes, but I wanted to try it, to say I've done it.'

I giggled. 'How was it?'

She shrugged in the bed. 'It got pretty hard to keep my mouth shut.'

Airplane toilets are hardly secure, you know. One must be very quiet no matter what business you are doing.

'So were you short of breath?' I teased. You know, because the air in an airliner is pressurised only to about 8000 feet, so it would be like doing it whilst up in the Rockies. Hence the expression 'mile-high club'.

'Yes,' she said. 'But not because of the cabin.'

I laughed at her. Well-- that is one event she can say for ever that she's done.

There were many more adventures we had on our trip and I will attempt to relate some of them as this blog proceeds. For now I will say that when we got in to Philadelphia on Tuesday evening we were all very exhausted and drove out to the beach house (in NJ) straight away, where there was a party of some friends and relatives that went quite late. Little J.J. slept through it all-- he tends to sleep very well. I, typically for a twit, attempted to live a perfectly normal life in Greenwich DST+5 till Wednesday morning when Jessy and I walked over the dune to the beach and I fell asleep on the blanket for about two or three hours. Passing people thought I was dead. Jessy covered me with a towel against the sun and explained to two men who passed by that I was not hung over, that it was only jet lag. But in a way what the men assumed was correct too, for I am still coming down from the reverie of having been to England again.

This morning Roger arrived and drove Jessy and me home to Terncote in order than we may keep some engagements, specifically a dinner with the girls' club tonight. As the car pulled up in the yard I kicked off my shoes. As we walked up the steps I unbuttoned the shirt. We carried our own bags in to the house, leaving Roger to take the car back on his own. Jessy went round opening windows in the back to the sea air. I dropped my bags in the front hall with the shirt. I peeled down my shorts and left them in the parlour. I opened the French windows and went out, prising off the bra and leaving it on the step. I shimmied out of the panties on the terrace and dove straight into the pool. Jessy came out and giggled at me. But I felt absolutely great and within ten minutes, after she had joined me, I was swimming my 'usual' 25 laps. Today I did 30. And I still feel great.

Now I sit here in my room, not having got dressed, revelling in all that has happened in this very long and still-incomplete blog. Well-- I have two weeks left in which to finish it before school begins!

And I still haven't picked up my clothes.

...

In England, week 2+

August 15-25, 2009 (posted by Janine, 20.50, Sun 30 Aug 2009-- Terncote)

Sat 15 Aug
- Touring British Museum. Little J.J. ecstatic with fossils, paleoglyphs, and-- for some reason-- stuffed birds. Dinner in Kensington High Street

Sun 16 Aug
- Attend Mass at St Martin's.
- Ride tourist boat down river to Greenwich, see Cutty Sark (J.J.'s treat). Lunch at same Italian restaurant at which Daddy and his bandmates ate on first tour of England in '80s. Visit to Observatory, Queen's House.
- Ride ferry across to Dockyards and ride light rail/tube to Covent Garden, see street show. Returned to hotel very late & very tired!

Mon 17 Aug
- Shopping with Jessy in Chelsea King's Road. Bought silk scarf, ugly but genuine jade-and-sterling bracelet, cute linen/wool charcoal miniskirt.
- Lunch in King's Road, met two cute guys, talked, etc.
- Out for pizza with family.

Tue 18 Aug
- Drizzle today. Drove up to Norwich with family.
- Shopping in town, ran into Henry (ex) in the arcade. This was a little odd, or just awkward.
- Jessy and I to Melanie's sister's 13th BD party near where we used to live.

Wed 19 Aug
- Horseback riding in preserve (adjacent to house we had there) with Jill and Pam.
- Sleepover at friends' house, 6 girls in one room half on top of each other which reminded us of HOH dorms!

Thu 20 Aug
- Late brunch at friends' house, which meant a late lunch at pub in town. Shopping-- mailed postcards and gifts home
- An (indoor) swim party at other friend's house, afternoon/evening. barbecue, etc. This was mainly in our honour.

Fri 21 Aug
- Long-scheduled garden party at Lady B's (her delayed birthday), a lovely catered affair in a lovely 17th-century garden. I wore my new short charcoal miniskirt and navy pumps with a bright chartreuse top and matching socks. A professor friend of Daddy's (older than he is) made conversation and we talked about uni. Someone said later I looked 25 but not 17. I did NOT consider this offensive!

Sat 22 Aug
- Daddy led the usual trip to the fens, went for long hike along sea wall, played on swings, had fish-and-chips in small pub.
- Dinner at Pizza Hut with Daddy's friend (his drummer from second band) and his family-- kind of a reunion.

Sun 23 Aug
- Drove back down to London, returned rental car (can't drive into the city!) and checked back in to Swallow.
- Met friends from HOH in KHS for late supper.

Mon 24 Aug
- Swimming in bikinis in hotel (indoor) pool, met (or were ogled by) some German guys with really bad English and worse body odor.
- Lunch with Jessy, Daddy and two of his music-business associates, discussed my future CD (if you can believe that) and got encouraged to take up dance again (because it helps when doing a music video... if you can believe that). Daddy just does not want me to go to university!
- Went down to club in Piccadilly with Jessy, Daddy to see live band. Met members, exchanged numbers & email, etc. Returned to hotel very late.

Tue 25 Aug
- Flying home with family, arrived home at beach house in NJ about 7.30 pm. Some friends and relatives welcomed us home with small party. I stayed up very late and as a result would be completely knackered on beach tomorrow!

...

In England, week 1

August 7-14, 2009 (posted by Janine, 00.30 Sat 15 Aug-- London)
Itinerary for the first week:

Sat 8 Aug
- Depart Philadelphia, 6.20 PM

Sun 9 Aug
- Arrive Gatwick, 6.55 AM
- Train to Norfolk (stops twice in London)
- Met by Lady B at train depot, Aylsham.
- Lunch, drive to her house.

Mon 10 Aug
- Conference at UEA, outside Norwich, 10 AM. (I am already accepted here for 2010.)
- Lunch with Lady B, Norfolk city
- Drive past house we rented 2006-2008, photos
- Meet friends from HOH for supper, ice cream, watch '17 Again' and 'John Tucker Must Die' on DVD

Tue 11 Aug
- Conference at U York, 11 AM. (I am tentatively accepted at the meeting.)
- Lunch with Lady B, shopping in York
- Return to Aylsham, eve. (this is like a 3-hour drive.) Games and supper with Lady B & her dad

Wed 12 Aug
- Hanging out with HOH friends, shopping, swimming at pool. 'Near-death experience' when Cara lets wheels slide off tarmac and car almost goes into boggy grass. All are safe. Car muddy. Girls giggly (defence mechanism against being scared witless).

Thu 13 Aug (Rain, slight.)
- Meeting at U Cambridge, AM (Jessy expresses an interest and this ends up being two separate meetings.)
- Meet Daddy, Mother, Lisa & J.J. for lunch (they arrive this morning)
- Return to Lady B's for evening, supper. Watch 'Emma' on DVD-- Lisa glued to it.

Fri 14 Aug
- Visiting Houghton Hall, Houghton beach with Lady B, photos, etc
- Drive down to London, PM, check into Swallow, Earl's Court. Jessy and I have long walk in town, take photos, get propositioned by cute but somewhat rude guys. Making plans for tomorrow.
...

To pack, or not to pack

To England....
Friday 7 August 2009

Jessy and I have made this trip enough times now that we know the routine. Even post-9/11 there are still things you can get away with and things you can't. For example they have basically given over that ridiculous rule where you can't have a bottle of shampoo in your carry-on bag, you know. It had been getting just a little too much. I mean honestly-- do I look like a Middle Eastern terrorist?

Being minors flying without adults is another issue-- actually this tends to be more off-putting than our appearance, when it comes to the airport security people perceiving us as a problem. They are so busy checking our travel documents-- passports, school ID, letter and signature from parents, letter and signature from person responsible for us when we get there, and so on-- that they really don't regard our luggage as much of a threat. Nevertheless we would be prudent.

We each have a nice canvas attaché bag from Land's End, into which we put a padded sleeve housing the laptop. In this bag also goes anything we need for the flight-- books or magazines, iPod, mobile phone, and the all-important supplies in case of lost luggage-- shampoo and soap, toothpaste and toothbrush, deodorant, hairbrush, a change of underwear and t-shirt, and something warm in case we're stuck outside in the rain, you know. Since the first time we flew with Mother, when she was our nanny, we have learnt to carry also a change of clothes for the ride, if only an extra pair of clean panties and a t-shirt. There is NOTHING like being able to duck into the airplane lavatory, and wash your face, brush your teeth and change your underwear before landing! --if you have never done this, do it at all costs next time. You won't be sorry. (Just make sure the panties you bring along are pretty conservative. They will open this bag in front of you, all their coworkers, and every other stranger in the queue. Horrors happen.)

As far as clothes we generally pack:
- Jeans, khaki pants
- One good sweatshirt nice enough to wear anywhere
- One good jacket, usually navy-blue or dark-grey (I actually am bringing my HOH blazer!)
- T-shirts, especially nice ones
- All the underwear (both parts) I can fit in my case, not to be less than 1-1/2 full sets per day, so, counting on doing washing at Lady B's before Thursday that means about 15 pairs of panties and at least 8 bras
- Socks
- COMFORTABLE dress shoes-- honestly, I have these $11.99 Easy-Walker knockoffs from Payless that are soft, navy, 2-1/4" and comfy. I will likely wear them to all my meetings and wear Adidas otherwise
- Sunglasses & hats
- Other stuff, you know, but this is the must-have list.

The rest of our stuff goes in the bigger bags which will be checked for the baggage compartment.

Things we DO NOT pack include:
- Bigger than travel-size of hair-care bottles and deodorant
- CDs. This is what the iPod is for.
- Anything too warm (no need), anything too dressy (only gets wrinkled to sin in bags), more than one swimsuit (really?), too-short shorts, irreplaceable jewellry.
- Food. They confiscate it.
- Fluffy animals. When we relocated back to the US from England, almost exactly one year ago, I had all mine sent in the FedEx shipment. Only Cinnamon travels with me-- he'll be in my checked case, though, poor soul-- there is no room for him in the computer bag.
- Pads. This is the very stupidest thing to pack-- they take up so much room! (It's like packing air!) Carry only what you would carry in your purse for a day or two and buy them when you get to where you are going. I've known girls who buy a full box (or two!) before they depart and pack it in their luggage. Do they really think there are no sanitary napkins in England? (Of course tampons are less of a space problem... but to a lesser degree the same truth holds for them too.)

...

One thing and then another

or, How my family does a beach house party

Sunday 2 August 2009

We attended Holy Innocents' this morning, but they do not know us so well here (in spite of Daddy having given them so much money over the years-- mostly anonymously), so they did not know to announce Lisa's 6th birthday. We did inform the rector in the receiving line and she was very pleased and proud to be congratulated one this milestone. She has lived 17 percent of her whole life since this time last year, when we were just arrived from England. When we moved in to the house in Virginia Lisa had only fuzzy memories of having lived in the US at all. She still bears that cute accent, though it is not so much from having gone to nursery school and Sunday school with other children in England as it is because her mother is Anglo-Australian, one of the scant minority native to Australia but of English and Protestant ancestry. Mother has only a hint of an Australian accent-- she sounds more like she is from East Anglia, where we stayed for two years, and little Lisa talks a lot like her mummy does.

People began arriving at about 3.00 or 4.00. I had a shower and dressed at about 3.30-- the day was nasty with clouds and thundershowers till about then and I had been inside, on the computer and not exactly dressed (okay, stark-naked), the closest I ever am to actually being bored. Then the house filled up. We eventually were able to move most of the party out to the deck. There was Daddy's uncle and aunt, having come up from their place down the Island. There was Gran, of course, and Daddy's brother and his family. There was Mother's dear best friend, having come up on the Ferry from Delaware, with her fiance, just for the occasion. Three of the girls from the ice-cream shop who were free came by. And Jessy's friends, Claire, Scotia and Edie, made sure to wander in round 5.00. Also Edie's mother showed up-- not so much out of some parental protection, to watch over her daughter at this party full of beer and wine and loud jokes and live music, of course, but because she carries something of a crush on Daddy, of whom she has been a fan these twenty-odd years or more now. Needless to say Daddy was in his element, telling funny stories, mugging with his family for the camera, serving up more food and drink to everyone than they wanted and making sure no one felt left-out. So I think Edie's mother had a really good time.

Mother (our stepmother) may be the most natural party-hoster next to Daddy. I remember my own mother was very good at it, preparing everything to the very highest standard and then presiding over the festivities-- that is to say, being a charming and gracious hostess who never let anyone down-- always with a smile and a hug and kiss for everyone. She was just like that naturally, and from having known her and learnt from her, our stepmother follows that example. Only Mother, being young in age and even younger at heart, is far more casual. For example, she rang the deli for a tray of food, and the bakery did the cake for the party. (She made a lovely homemade cake-- from scratch-- last night for our immediate-family celebration. She wouldn't dare not make one herself.) She wore a very pretty royal-blue bikini with a blue-and-white wrap-skirt draped round her hips, with her hair up and high-heeled shoes (okay, Easy-Walkers). This is remarkable because she is young and looks it, in spite of having borne two children, and of course she is very beautiful, and especially because she is... shall I say... well-endowed. She has the perfect figure for a bikini and always has had-- I do not mean she is anything other than pleasantly proportioned. And she wears the shoes really because of being so short. But I really think no one could overlook her at any party no matter what people are wearing. She just seems to exude sweetness and hospitality.

Of course Lisa takes after her as much as she takes after Jessy and me too. She wanted to wear a swimsuit and heels too, though of course she does not own any shoes with heels and discovered with near-tearful lament that both her swimsuits here were damp in the basket for the washing. Jessy soothed her-- I might have guessed-- and next she appeared, for her own birthday, in front of family and friends, everyone but J.J. being quite older than she is, in-- you guessed it-- the bandanna bikini. She absolutely loves it, you know. Jessy did fit her with another bandanna tied round her ribs as a top, and then did her hair up on her head like she was going to a prom, and everyone raved over how 'native' she looked even whilst she looked like a princess.

The bandanna bikini top didn't last all night, but she is six and no one really cared. I have to admit I thought she was even cuter with it off... bikini tops on little girls just seem so pretentious to me somehow!

I have to confess that by the time I was done playing piano and singing and crooning along with whoever else played, I had had about three full glasses of wine and was in no condition to be very gracious or hospitable to anyone. Fortunately Edie's mother did not notice. Scotia did, teased me about it, and then slyly asked me where the wine was. I made a face at her and pranced (okay, staggered) away from her. Fortunately Jessy is no drinker and would not enable her friends to either. But I was disappointed in Scotia-- she's younger than Jessy, having only turned 15 this June, and very cute... but what makes someone like that ask for a glass of wine at someone else's party? And what do we know of her history with it? I've had wine at the table since I was much younger than she is now, and so what if I have three glasses at one party? I don't have to defend my sense or propriety to someone who just wants to drink so she can say later that she was drinking.

Oh, sorry-- this is not the kind of thing I should write about before a good night's sleep, you know.

Anyway this party served as kind of a sendoff for Jessy and me, since we leave tomorrow for Virginia and will not be back here in New Jersey till nearly Labor Day. I have enjoyed it all, even though I have missed my friends at home, and missed Stephen (more on that later) and missed out on a few somewhat important events that were at the end of a four-hour drive because of having to work here that evening or the morning after, you know. I love this house and love this whole town, and the beach here is like no other in the world. But England calls, and I will heed that call. This time next week I will be five time zones away. And there will be friends there too.

There is a bit of wine left in this glass. I drink to the summer, well-spent.

...

Such is the gentle life.

Whitsunday, 31 May 2009

As we are back in the US again we must become used to American ways all over again, and one of them is the way the church here celebrates Whitsunday as 'Pentecost' and emphasises the colour red. Jessy and I would be unswayed however and with Lisa we all wore white. We each have a new soft cotton dress, and I wore my white sandals. Of course at church half the people teased us-- 'You forgot to wear red!' --none of the poor dears knowing that we really were commemorating the day, only in a different way. There were two baptisms as this is a traditional day for it, but, unusually, one was an adult-- a mother and a the newborn (actually about 2 months old). Then there was the usual reception with tea and doughnuts and all, which Daddy and Mother wanted to stay for since it meant we did not have to go out for pancakes.

At home I rang Dottie at the ice-cream parlour up in New Jersey, because I promised to, just to find out how she was doing. So by the time I was ready to go outside the cloudiness and drizzle had cleared up. I put away the dress and sandals and in my underthings went into Jessy's room, where she was complaining about not being able to go all bare outside. After some comforting I got her to come out with Lisa and me anyway. I went out in my panties too, to not let Jessy feel left out, but she was still a little miffed that my panties were white. Hers could not be-- she of course had worn a slip with her white dress to church.

And little Lisa went bare, such as she is prone to do. She doesn't have these problems!

We did not merely lie out but did a bit of straightening-up round the yard, as the recent rains have cluttered the side yard with sticks from the trees and so on. We rearranged some potted plants round the bottom of the steps from the upper garden and finally dragged our chaises down to the lawn to settle in. The sun was very bright, even intense, which was what we wanted. Jessy and I imposed on Lisa to put the lotion on our backs. She never minds this-- she considers it an honour. Of course I put it all over her too. She giggles when you rub lotion onto her bottom. I always make sure to tickle her because that's sort of called-for when she is only 5 and prone to giggling.

When we moved the chaises down we sort of set them up a little closer to the water. The walled garden is very formal and solid, with plenty of rip and even a spare little beach between the easternmost wall and the water of the Bay. But the yards to either side just sort of roll down in a series of shallow terraces till a fringe of grass is separating the area we maintain from a short dune and then the sand and the water. The fringe of grass is never trimmed and so provides a kind of screen between the fishermen's eyes and where we lie. I have never felt uncomfortable lying there. I am quite sure none of them would ever even think to look for us with binoculars and as I said I don't think they would see us. So last summer we gradually came to make this our usual sunning zone. Because of the wall we are out of sight from the first storey if anyone should happen to come over-- although we'd still have the problem of sneaking back into the house!

I nodded off-- too many late nights online I am sure! --and had a very bizarre dream about these horrible steel frames which rolled on a track and you put scrap metal into them to burn so that they would move together, which was the end. And some terrorist group was using them as an execution device. One prisoner I had become friendly with and I remember reaching out and holding his hand in farewell, saying, 'I love you, brother!' And he said, 'I am safe now.- --meaning he was in God's hands. He knew I would be the last friendly human being he would see on this earth. And I woke up shaking.

Jessy was out of her chaise and wandering down along the fringe of grass. There were boats out-- I wondered how modest she would be, but none of the boats seemed close enough to worry about. As I watched she said down cross-legged in the grass and toyed with a small stick. She was bored. She would rather have been naked. Lisa was long gone by this time-- she never lies long but wanders round the yard too, sometimes doing some questionably modest things herself-- once last summer we found her on the other side of the house exploring the construction site that would become the ballfield... and naked, but for her sneakers which she put on 'to be safe'. I got up and strolled down to where Jessy sat. 'What's wrong?'

She shrugged. I watched her toy with the stick for a bit and then she looked up at me. 'We're not going to be able to do this at the Shore,' she said.

Both of us are intending to work at the ice-cream parlour this summer. We'll be staying in our old house, the little house Daddy built on the beach when he and Mommy were first married. It's cosy, but of course the beach there is very popular with even unsavoury characters and there's no opportunity do do as we do here. I folded my legs under me and sat down. 'I know,' I said. 'But we'll be back often. Dottie's giving us a very lenient schedule.'

'I know....' She leaned back on her hands and stretched out her legs. 'I didn't think I would love here, and now I do.'

I smiled at her. 'Because of this?'

She shrugged. In that pose it looked very cute. 'Yes.... And the house. And the quiet. And because of Daddy.'

'Daddy?'

'He loves it here,' she said. 'He's busy all the time. He scarcely even works now. And now with the ballfield....'

I knew what she meant. Daddy drives over on the tractor and mows the whole outfield and surrounding yard as well as our own. You would think someone like him would be content to hire someone-- but the only paid people who do our yard are for cleaning the pool and trimming the trees with that tall thing on the arm. He actually enjoys driving round in circles on that tractor, often with little JJ on the 'copilot seat' (which is a seat with a seatbelt he bolted to the fender beside his seat in his lap) or in the trailer with Lisa. We see very few visitors here, being so far away from all our usual acquaintance. And we did not go away for New Year's and scarcely have gone anywhere since. I feel as Jessy does-- that when we are working up in New Jersey this summer I will miss this place terribly. It's become a home in more than a physical sense.

Little Lisa came running-- I mean really running, full tilt-- round the front corner of the house and down the whole yard to where we sat. 'You guys!' she said. And she skidded to a halt and slid in on her side beside us in the grass. 'What are you doing?'

'Talking,' Jessy told her.

'Ha-ha-ha. Is it girl talk?'

I turned at her. 'What if it is? You're a girl.'

'Ha. Yes I am.' And she shrugged, as though unsure of that. But really there isn't much we refuse to talk about in front of her. What she doesn't get doesn't matter. 'So are you going steady with Stephen?'

I smiled at her. So did Jessy. 'That's not exactly what we were talking about, you know. But, for your information, no, I'm not.'

'Ohhh. Did he ask you?'

'No.'

She nodded, understanding that. 'Does he have another girlfriend?'

I laughed. 'No.'

'Then why hasn't he asked you?'

Lisa is adorable when she gets like this. The first reason is because she has about half of Mother's Anglican Australian accent-- she uses words like 'hasn't' well and never seems to say anything that's not well said, meaning articulately pronounced. The other thing is that she's uncommonly persistent. She doesn't actually nag and she never really becomes a nuisance-- if you just tell her you'd rather stop talking about this she will respect that and stop. But she will ask everything that comes into her mind and she asks it because she really does want to know the answer. She is clearly the precocious product of a brilliant and charming mother, a mature and worldly father, and two older sisters who converse with her like an equal. She is the epitome of the 'triple threat' and will be absolutely terrifying to puerile boys (and the men they grow up to be) some day.

(The 'triple threat' is what Mother calls the concept of being good-looking, intelligent, and virtuous, to the point where most men are completely stymied. Invariably they can accept two out of three. It's that third one that drives them nuts. But, as Mother says, it's what all decent and intelligent men really want. It only falls to the men to figure that out, appreciate it for what it is, and then lift themselves out of the gutter to deserve you. Invariably they can do two out of three. It's that third one that they give up on.)

We got up and with Lisa holding each of our hands strolled back along the lawn towards the chaises. When we were halfway there Daddy came round the corner with the tractor and JJ on the 'copilot seat'. Seeing us he hit the horn and raced the tractor towards us. Lisa giggled, let go of our hands, and ran off towards the trees squealing as though she were being chased. Daddy stopped the tractor and then she approached him, warily, standing a few yards away and hooking her fingers in front of herself and twirlling on her heels like she does when she's being bashful. Before we got there Daddy had put JJ down and the two of them ran hand-in-hand up the garden steps to the house.

'What is it?' I called.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Tea. That's all.'

We both nodded. Jessy paced off towards the steps, not saying anything. I stopped beside Daddy in the idling tractor.

'What's with her?' he asked me.

'She's just being pensive,' I said. 'She says she will miss being here this summer.'

'Well, I don't expect you two to be gone all the time.'

'No,' I said, 'I don't expect us to either.'

'I would miss you,' he said.

I smiled at that. The house at the beach is his house-- he can come and go as he likes. What he was saying is that he would prefer to be here, or at Lewes. He has become gentry-- I hid a laugh at the notion of my father the ex-performer taking the peace of his own 'vine and fig tree'. This is his house and the husbandry of it is what he loves best. So-- is that what we have come to? We are gentry? My father has land, tenants in houses, even a tenant farmer and gardener, so that must mean I am a gentleman's daughter. Well-- there might be worse things to be.

...

St Patrick's Day... bah!

Tuesday 17 March 2009

Jessy took Daddy up on a dare this morning and came down stairs in her close-fitting khakis, black shoes, and a navy-blue long-sleeved tee with another tee over it... and the other tee was her St Patrick's Day shirt.

Daddy claims he has never been a fan of the Irish cause. The whole issue of the Troubles aggravates him so much that ever since Bloody Sunday he has been avoiding green on St Patrick's Day. But he has reasons.

1. Our family heritage does not include ANY Irish. Actually, my sister Jessy and I are ethnically English three times more than anything else.

2. We are not liberals. We do not support the overthrow of a monarchy that has worked, in one form of another, for over 1100 years.

3. We are nonviolent and Christian and believe in the Martin Luther King philosophy that all good things come to those who keep faith and refrain from violence, and not the Malcolm X philosophy that you have to achieve your goals by violence if it's easier or necessary, like Sein Fein and the IRA believe. (The British in Northern Ireland have used police force when necessary. The IRA have used terroristic tactics when expedient. They are not the same thing at all.)

4. We are not Catholic. In fact as a family we object to a culture that believes in 'one island, one nation, one religion' as Irish President Mary Fitzpatrick said in the 1980s. We also object to liberal American Catholics seeking capitalist American money to support a political action group who seek to establish 'one nation, one religion' in a foreign country. These are the same Americans who would object very loudly indeed if a president of this country were to take foreign money and say, 'one nation, one religion'-- unless of course it was THEIR religion. Being liberal relativists they should therefore understand my family's objections... but they don't because they're just liberal relativists.

5. We are more 'politically correct' than most people who say they are. The problem with the liberal/relativists' concept of 'politically correct' is that it's only considered 'correct' if it supports THEIR side. But if you look at it objectively you will see that, on a cultural level, it's kind of offensive to assume that 'everyone has a little Irish in them'. It's also kind of offensive to support a cause that deliberately offends what someone else believes in. I always thought 'political correctness' was about not offending anyone, but it seems to be more about certain people being allowed to offend only certain people. After all, in modern American culture, the English are the only people you're actually SUPPOSED to offend. As an Anglo-American, that offends me.

6. St Patrick was an English Roman Catholic monk who was sent to Ireland to convert druids in about 375 AD. Ironically, while the Irish complain that their native celtic (Druid) culture has been deliberately washed away or covered up by the English, as a nation they are firm supporters of the religion this Englishman gave them. Who is the hypocrite?

Jessy's St Patrick's Day shirt has a screen print of the Union Flag front and back (though it is intended to be a shirt and not a flag). I have one too-- we each bought one in London when we were visiting the Tower-- but as this is a new school I was a little wary of wearing it. Jessy would not shrink from the dare. Daddy congratulated her (laughing though. This is really only as serious as people wearing green is... but there is a point to it). All day at school people were coming up and saying to her, 'Cool shirt' (it's the first she's worn it since we moved here). It was funny because although everyone noticed it was not green, only a few people happened to notice that it was making a statement. Some people really don't see the significance of symbolism like this.

Then again-- maybe that's just living in America.

(Now all the liberal/relativists will email or IM me to say I have offended them for saying that I have been offended by a tradition they took for granted. Either you're tolerant of all points of view, or you're not.)

...

Culture clash

Wednesday 25 February 2009

Mother and I drove up to the beach house last night so that we could have an early start this morning for my appointment. Georgian Court is a Catholic women's college in Ocean County, probably the closest campus to a beach in all of New Jersey and definitely-- by statistics-- the safest one. I had read over all their stuff and decided that in spite of all the Catholic influences-- they have nuns on campus-- I like it. For what it's worth jessy likes it too, which may be a good sign that she'll follow me there. But she's not allowed to have a day off from school for MY college visitation and so she's not here with us.

I drove the Regal, up to the Ferry terminal, up the Parkway, and today up Route Nine to Lakewood. We arrived a little early and were shown to a very pretty waiting room at the admissions office. Both Mother and I were in skirts and tights and sweaters, typical for both of us though I wore a pretty cute pink-and-black striped skirt and white sweater with my leather patchwork jacket and grey pumps. We sat with three other girls and their parents and listened to the school's presentation. Several times Mother caught my hand and squeezed it. I know she is excited about seeing me go off to university somewhere. It's what she did, but it's also that since I am not her actual child she hasn't had me round so long as to miss me. I am sure when Lisa goes away she will feel something a lot different. For example, I know Daddy hates the thought of it-- he would rather have me stay home till I become a forty-something spinster writing stupid romance novels... and he has said exactly that, more than once. Personally I am ambivalent about it all. Maybe Mother's enthusiasm for my university career will energise me. I really don't know yet.

We were given a campus tour by a very sweet girl with good manners and excellent diction who wore snug jeans and a school jersey. She seemed to embody everything good about the school itself, both pretty and pleasant as well as polite and proper. I suppose that was a good influence on me, then. I will say that Mother's accent, though mostly English, gave her away as Australian and since most Aussies are Catholic this seemed to make sense to the admissions people. And once or twice we were asked for our last name and someone knew who Daddy was. My being his daughter then began to hold some weight. Of course we cannot expect much from financial aid. Daddy has trust funds set up for all of us that have matured as we have, and mine is just about able to cover the whole tuition in cash. But we have applied anyway and found that Georgian Court offers scholarships for 'college-preparatory' study and also for church involvement, even if it's not a Catholic church. I also have come with letters of recommendation from HOH, my old school in England, and also from our church rector there who wrote about my organising a children's Epiphany pageant the year I turned 16. The people at Georgian Court were impressed by that and asked if I want to study for a schoolteacher. I said I don't know.

Actually I am inclined to study English, but I really don't know what I will do with that. Will I teach school? Will I take a graduate degree and teach at university? Will I go into journalism? Mother never applied her degree in English beyond writing her journal and hundreds of letters and the odd article or two... but she is a happy homemaker now and doesn't need to do more at this stage of her life. I am not anyone's nanny-- nor am I inclined to be, much as I love little ones-- and I do not have any grand penchant in my life at all. Listening to these other girls today made me feel like a profound nothing. They all have grand schemes for their futures. Somewhat sceptically I wonder how many of them will amount to anything in the way that they think they will. I mean, what is accounting? --but counting someone else's money? What is 'computer science'? --I don't even know what job that would be. What is business administration? --but becoming trained in a management job you might not ever have the experience to deserve?

I am sorry for how this sounds but I promise you I am very clueless about anything regarding my future.

I do have to say that Lakewood, where the university is, is a very funny community. From what we saw of it, there seems to be a large Mexican neighbourhood on one side of Route Nine and a positively enormous Orthodox Jewish community on the other side. One the one sides, idle Mexican men stand round street corners like the workers in the Gospel story waiting for someone to call them up and hire them for the day. On the other side Jewish men all in black stride rapidly about on some business that keeps them out of doors on a cold winter's day. Neither community seems to work very hard at anything-- they've all got too much time being outside in plain view doing, well, nothing. I wonder who pays the taxes in this town!

(I hope it's not the university!)

Mother and I had some errands to run and so I drove us over to the shopping arcade after our appointment. We had plenty to eat-- the admissions people are positively lavish with food and apparently feed everyone at every event. At the food market Mother needed the 'little blue box' as she calls it and I wanted to pick up some conditioner as I had brought the only bottle I had at home and it's run out. Whilst we stood in the checkout line her phone rang and she handed me some money and stepped aside to report to Daddy about our visit. A young Jew in his black clothes stepped up behind me. I could not tell if he were 16 or 21-- they all dress the same. But he was young and so gravely serious that I was nearly afraid of him. To be rid of my anxiety I said hello to him when we happened to meet eyes.

'Hello,' he replied, nodding more than he spoke.

'Is this place always so crowded?' I asked, merely for conversation.

He only shrugged and then looked away as though I were not worth any more of his time. That kind of hurt, you know-- I am not a monster and will always be friendly to strangers, even people who are markedly different from me. I just believe it's a way to bridge divides, you know. But the young man did not seem to care. I thought maybe that was because his belief system tells him to not meddle with Gentiles-- that's a terrible way to think but it's all I came up with at the time. And I did not like the thought. My belief system is the way of the Good Samaritan, to accept and respect all people regardless of their race or creed, in the same way as I would want to be respected by them. That means I say hello to people I don't know-- yet-- and I will help anyone who needs me. In that way I don't judge.

One thing about us girls, however, is that we can always tell when someone is checking us out. It's not such a difficult skill to master-- you first rule out your own ego and then sort of focus on people's eyes, and you can tell what they think of how you look. I usually get guys looking at my chest. To avoid feeling totally humiliated I usually amuse myself by saying something completely esoteric and profound to see if he can even hear me. Usually he cannot. Guys have a very narrow band of attention... it's about as wide as a girl's hips and doesn't allow for much past that.

The Jewish guy behind me was looking at me. I found that terribly hypocritical-- he will not exchange pleasantries with me, but he will look down at my short skirt and my legs in the white tights and have some kind of thought about me. Of course the girls my age in his community don't dress like I do. They're all in cute little button-up black jackets and calf-length black skirts and black socks and low-heeled black shoes. And they keep their eyes down when a guy looks at them. I didn't keep my eyes down. I looked right at his head till he looked up again and realised I had seen him looking. But he didn't blush. He didn't even flinch. He seemed to regard it as his right to check out Gentile girls in short skirts as though we don't matter. He doesn't have to safeguard my reputation or treat me with respect. He can just look, and imagine, and he doesn't even have to apologise for that because his creed only applies to other Jews. A Gentile is an outcast, a heathen-- any unclean thoughts about me don't count as sin because, since I don't matter, anything he thinks about me doesn't matter.

I am sorry if this sounds prejudiced. I know a little about the Orthodox faiths from my evangelism study at my old church, and I won't pretend to be an expert on any of them. But I do know that most of them consider themselves as set apart by God, for some special treatment, and that it is their responsibility to keep themselves 'unstained by the world'. To them that means not mixing up with nonbelievers in social situations. They don't go to parties, they don't go to the beach, they don't go to concerts or anywhere they might be exposed to outside influences. I find that cowardly and foolish. Jesus scolded the Pharisees when they attempted to correct Him and His disciples for eating with unclean hands. He told them that nothing that goes into a man can defile him, only what comes out of him can. I could go to wild parties every night of the week and sit there, sip tea, and talk with other people about the Lord's work in my life, and would that be a sin? But if I were go to church every day of the week, participate in ECW, teach Sunday school, and attend evangelism seminars and Bible study whenever it was held, but take drugs and sleep around and lie and condemn God in the rest of my life, I would not be a Christian.

People online have asked me why I go into questionable chat rooms, and this is the reason. I challenge those people-- have I ever done anything wrong in those rooms? Jesus went and sat with sinners and tax collectors, because it was there that His influence was needed. Nothing anyone says to me in a chat room can defile me, only what I say to other people can. I remain unafraid of outside influences. I am not the frightened little Jewish guy in the market at Lakewood. I am stronger and better than that. I am a Christian.

...

How Daddy got his boat back

Tuesday 6 January 2009

This afternoon Roger, our driver, pulled in to the yard with his classic Chevy Suburban towing a trailer with a faded blue-and-white speedboat on it. It was one of the few times I have ever heard my father scream spontaneously. I had been feeling under the weather and had said I would lie down but I ended up reading and so I heard him cry out down stairs. And naturally I-- as well as everyone else-- ran down to see what had excited him.

The boat is a 1976 Sidewinder fibreglass speedboat, 18 feet long, metallic silver blue (same colour as my car) with a white flame design on the front, with bucket seats in the middle and a bench seat across the back in white upholstery and a big engine in the back with a water-jet drive behind it. My dad got it in about 1979 after they had made a few hit records and the previous owner had blown up the motor (it happens). At that time he had a big convertible Buick and decided to put a Buick engine into the boat. He used it often on Barnegat Bay till that fateful year... and after his fiancee died and he left the country for a while the boat sat forlorn and forgotten on a trailer at the band's beach house till the band was dissolved and so many important things were being considered that really made the boat seem unimportant. By the time he got back from London the beach house had been sold with a lot of other stuff, including the boat and its trailer. Daddy went on with his life, met Mommy, got married, had a custom 34-foot sailboat built for Delaware Bay, and the speedboat only remained in his memories, along with his fiancee with whom he had enjoyed the boat and all the hopes and dreams they had for a future that never happened. Knowing Daddy he has been hanging onto those memories, maybe only for himself, because he is the only one alive for whom they still even exist at all.

As it turns out the boat was bought by someone who actually took care of it, an older man in the military who eventually died, or went to Southeast Asia (there are two versions of the story). This next owner let the boat sit for another long period, unused, till a much younger guy bought it and used it for a short while up in New York State. I do not remember how the boat came to be up there. It sat in a shed or a garage for another half-dozen years and finally someone's mother, or wife, offered it up for sale at an antiques auction up there. And someone from northern New Jersey bought and brought it back to its home state. (I am sure none of these people were aware of who once owned it.) This last owner is a friend of one of Roger's friends and Roger happened to hear that he might want to sell it. On a chance that it might turn out to be the very boat it actually turned out to be, Roger drove all the way up to Bergen County this past weekend and brought it home for Daddy.

Now Roger has been in the classic-cars business for longer than he has worked for Daddy, going back to about the same time as when Daddy bought the speedboat to begin with. So Roger knew the boat long ago, and he recognised it at first glance this past weekend. I do not know how much he paid for it, but the boat seems to be in surprisingly good condition. It has never been repainted. The upholstery on the front seats has been mended but the back seat is original (to when Daddy got it). It is even still on the original trailer (the tyres are much newer however). Best of all the engine still runs. The big Buick v-8 is one of Daddy's favourite engines-- he has several in his collection now-- and part of the reason is its durability and longevity.

Once he got over his initial shock (though he and Roger are very close I have never seen Daddy actually HUG him before!) the two of them-- and Jessy, who was feeling better than I was-- rolled the boat on its trailer into the long garage and hooked up a hose for cooling water and a newer battery for starting and got it running straight away. In spite of the light, somewhat nasty little drizzle, they left the roll-up door open and all through the house you could hear the musical blare of those wide-open exhaust pipes like a military fanfare. I stood in the kitchen leaning over the sink to see out the window, watching water run all over the tarmac and the occasional puff of smoke float out the doorway. Daddy was like a little kid with a new set of trains (and yes, he does have trains too) and didn't seem to want to shut it down. It was fully dark and fully raining by the time they brought down the door and came up for supper.

'Well?' I asked at the table. 'What's the verdict?'

He smiled. 'Well, it's still holding pretty good compression and the top end doesn't make too much noise.'

I frowned at that and Jessy laughed. 'Is it bad enough to rebuild it first?' she asked him.

I frowned again. 'Nah,' he said. 'A can of Marvel Mystery Oil should give it a few more seasons.'

(I still don't know what's so special about Marvel Mystery Oil, but I have heard him say that so many times I probably should.)

Though I am still typing this I got ready for bed about an hour ago, just after I came back up stairs. At 11.00 I had been in the kitchen getting a glass of cranberry juice when I saw the light on down in the back garage. No, I did not have to ask-- I know my daddy well enough. Even as I stood there he stepped backwards out the open garage door, stood there in the rain staring back at it, and then finally said some gentle comment at his fibreglass prodigal child before bringing down the door.

...

Welcome 2009

For New Year's Eve we had intended to be in New Jersey at the house on the beach there but two things intervened. The first was that my nieces and nephews have got sick and we were asked to postpone our visit till this weekend. The second was that Daddy would not be allowed to set off firecrackers-- at least not legally. So, we would be here.

Jessy was on her phone all day Wednesday hoping to find a party to go to. In the end Daddy decided he would not drive her home too late at night and would only let her accept invitations to a party at a female friend's house where there would be parents home all night and she could stay over. None was forthcoming. We would be staying here. Normally this is not a problem as we have had New Year's Eves in the past in which we just sat round looking at old home videos of us or of Lisa or of Daddy's oldest family movies on DVD or even some of Mommy. Of course there are also videos of his band-- well, either of his bands-- and plenty of other things including the 18th-century-style wedding he and Mother had, and so on. For some reason New Year's always makes us all sort of pull back and stay close. I don't think that's a bad thing at all, and it sure beats a party full of drunk people whom you can't trust two minutes past midnight.

We ended up each inviting a friend. I invited Becky whom I met on the first day or two of school here. We have always got on well and she is not dating anyone either. She's not the most sociable person in school, meaning that she doesn't go out much at al unless she's invited, which rarely if ever happens. I feel sorry for her sometimes, but as I have got to know her I respect and love her more and more. It's just a shame that a pleasant-looking, morally decent, intelligent girl is so unpopular. In that way we both have something on common. Neither of us will yield on our principles and so we each end up on our own most of the time. So she was a natural choice for me to invite and I am happy she was able to come over.

Jessy invited Rita-- yes, pretty, uberpopular Rita who was somewhat wary of the parties she had got invited to. I don't like to admit it but this is probably the influence Jessy, and even I, have had on her. Last year Rita would have gone to any party and braved the 'elements', if you will, for the sake of cultivating a reputation of being admired and desired. This year she is more selective. An invitation from Jessy to just come to our house, hang out, and stay over till after pancakes for brunch was exactly what she had hoped for. And so it was settled.

Becky got here first because she has her own car. I put her bag in my room-- that would be the easiest solution. Mother and Lisa and J.J. were all in the small parlour reading and Daddy was sitting in the kitchen beating the dickens out of a new set of strings, as he says playing hard is the only way to break them in. When Becky and I came in he put down the guitar and was all politeness... as usual. He really does like to make a good impression on our friends. Becky knows enough about him as my dad that she is no longer awed by who he is, or, I might say, who her parents know he was. He got us each a glass of (low-alcoholic) eggnog and we talked about how our Christmases have been. We never get that much for Christmas-- not like new cars or computers or diamond jewelry, you know, just whatever we happen to need and at least some of the stuff on our Christmas lists. I know people like Becky often assume we are these hyper-rich people who jet all over the world. The reality is that Daddy pays himself a very modest 'allowance' from his investments and we live within those means. That means we girls get the same speeches about money that anyone else would. As for myself I am glad of it. I would NOT want to have an unlimited budget for all the world (I guess that is an ironic or stupid figure of speech to use for it! --but there it is).

Rita's mother dropped her off at about 9.30 and we watched 'Ten Things I Hate About You' (Jessy's choice) in the TV theatre down stairs. Daddy came down with us and Mother did too after tucking in J.J. Lisa tried staying up but fell asleep in Daddy's lap and he carried her up stairs. Meanwhile through all this a storm was blowing through. Our uncle in New Jersey had phoned earlier reporting that they had had snow. The wind built through the night till it was howling and pretty scary. By 11.45 we were all convinced that we would NOT go outside and set off fireworks. Other people did, though-- we could hear them all over the place. We watched the ball drop on Times Square and the stupid comments of Hilary Clinton and the Jonas Brothers. I said it was pretty banal. Becky asked if we had ever been to Time Square for New Year's. I said, 'No.'

Daddy laughed. 'I have,' he said.'

'But that's ancient history,' I teased him.

'London was better,' he said, and then smiled at me.

'London?' she wondered.

'Yes,' I said. 'We were there for the Millennium.'

'Really! That big party they had there?'

I nodded. So she had us tell her all about that. I was only little then, of course, but I remember Daddy being on TV and people like Elton John and Richard Branson speaking there. There was also a concert one night which we also attended. Daddy got out some old photos on DVD and we watched them on the big screen. After that we watched 'She's The Man' (Jessy's choice again, getting us ready to act in 'Twelfth Night' by choosing all the Shakespeare adaptations she can find).

So it was nearly 3.00 by the time we all tromped up stairs. Rita was to stay with Jessy and Becky would stay with me. I've had other people in my bed before-- always friends, you know, or sisters-- hah!-- and although it always sounds like it'd be awkward it really never is. Becky wore sweats to bed, same as I do when it's cold, and we faced each other over the gap between the pillows talking till we both fell asleep. Actually I was grateful for her being under the same covers. It was a brittle cold night that was passed most comfortably and warmly because she was there.

In the morning none of us got up before 11.00. I suppose this is typical. Perhaps not surprisingly, Rita was the latest sleeper. I suppose she would have had to be the only one of us more pampered and self-indulgent than Jessy! Mother made pancakes as promised and one-by-one we excused ourselves to shower. I know some people find it awkward to shower at someone else's house, but I rather insisted that both girls have showers here, just out of being a good hostess. I know how it feels to forego it. So they both did (not at the same time). Becky had hers in my bathroom, which she already likes because it has a view of the bay and the islands and the ocean beyond. She says I am the only one she knows with a bathroom with a view!

I actually napped this afternoon before writing this. Daddy was watching the Concert for George down stairs and I sat down there and watched that for a bit-- till of course he got out the guitar again to play along with it and then I came back up stairs and got ready for bed.

So, there were no wild parties, no excessive drinking (just our eggnog and the usual glasses of champagne at midnight), no making out on couches or strange boys' beds and no driving home amidst all the drunk drivers. And no firecrackers... though there might have been. Not very exciting I am sure-- but pleasant all round, with a nice chance to further cement friendships.

...