The Lure of Harbour Cay

Sunday, 14 March 2010

Recently I have been having a series of compelling conversations with a somewhat-mature (okay, older) man about a daydream we both-- quite innocently-- discovered we share. I do not remember which of us brought it up first, but it's gone on some three nights or so now and finally I mentioned the gist of it to my parents.

Of course anyone knows I do not chat about anything inappropriate. It's not that kind of daydream! But I do often indulge people's imaginations, like to say, 'If you could live anywhere, where would you live?' --or 'If you could do any job, what would you do?' --and then, of course, ask why. And that evolves into a sensible, interesting discussion. (It's certainly more respectable than asking, 'If you could touch me anywhere, where would you touch me first?' --right? I mean I really don't need to know THAT kind of daydream from anyone!)

The daydream we discussed was about finding a private tropical island somewhere and then what one's life would be like if he or she had the opportunity to live there. I learned that a woman's fantasy about that is very different from a man's. For one thing, the man dreams of having some shack that requires no maintenance at all, a lazy man's retreat, if you will. Most men would probably like to avoid all forms of work, like home maintenance, personal hygiene, laundry, shaving, and so on. Also, a man would probably like to go fishing all day long, whenever he wants to. And, of course, he dreams of having some beautiful young (female) thing there to share it all with.

As a woman I dream of having some small but beautiful house for which I don't have to do all the work (that's the fantasy part). I don't like fishing and would rather eat fruit, or cultivate an orchard like we had at Lewes, and just pick whatever I want to eat whenever I want to eat it. I think that walking, swimming, and climbing trees along with a mostly-fruit diet would probably keep me strong and slender. I'm pretty sure I would shave at least as much as I do now, and I cannot abide my hair at all once it's been a day or two since a good shampooing. But as far as laundry is concerned I think I would be pretty happy with not having to worry about any of it (beyond what nature makes absolutely necessary for a week or so each month of course).

And just maybe, if he were the right choice, I would like to have a special someone to share it all with.

My friend online actually looked up 'Islands for sale' under Google and discovered a whole web site from some estate agents in Belize advertising about a dozen whole islands as well as parcels on slightly-larger islands. The islands are mostly small-- under 15 acres. Once I saw a few pictures of them I was infatuated and browsed them all till very late one night. I decided upon Harbour Cay. It's five acres and is for sale at $550,000. Honestly.

Harbour Cay has a natural lagoon, sheltered on almost four sides, about 6 or 7 feet deep. The whole island is to the north of the lagoon with only a narrow spit south of it, and the entrance to the west-southwest makes it perfect for sheltering a yacht in a hurricane. The interior is lovely, all soft green grass populated by small trees that have grown back since the last time some dreamer cleared it and left off the project. The advert says it might need filling to be high enough above the tide levels, but if one were to dredge the lagoon to about 8 or 9 feet, to accommodate a decent sailboat, there would be enough from that to fill a building site quite well.

I studied it (for at least an hour into the night) and decided where I would put my house. Now, my house would not be a low-maintenance shack. It would be an elegant little low-maintenance pirate's retreat, the kind of place an 18th-century sea captain would retire to when he gave up his ship to settle down, full of Oriental carpets, tile fireplaces, wooden panelling, mahogany furniture, and all (much like a small version of this house, and simpler). It would be of block, like this house is, with the local sand providing about half the concrete ingredients. It would have a three- or four-storey tower surrounded by lower wings, two bedrooms on the second floor, a ballroom, dining room and small parlour on the first, a semidetached kitchen and pantry, and then at the end of a long cloister bridge, a guest room. The first storey would be about 6 feet off the ground in case of flooding. Across the lagoon there is a knob of land jutting out where I would have another tower, only two storeys, with a guest room on the bottom floor, really just as a kind of landmark or lookout point as though to protect the harbour entrance.

That made me think of protection. Maybe, being a woman, I care more about this than some people might. But I can't imagine the southwestern Caribbean to be profoundly free of crime. I started thinking about black-powder guns mounted on the parapets of the towers, and then thought maybe just a good World War II machine gun. The problem would be in getting actual ammunition. I don't suppose World War II machine-gun bullets are very easy to come by even in Belize. This is why I fall back on my typically 18th-century idea of black powder. I just don't know how or where I would like to store it, since it's very volatile. (Daddy does not keep all of his in the house, only what will fit in the small safety niche he has in the kitchen fireplace stack. That's actually the traditional way of storing it at home.)

And then came the fateful storm on Saturday, when the power went out for five and a half hours, and (by candlelight, appropriately) I looked into Daddy's now-dated catalogue from that place in Ohio where all the Amish shop that's full of appliances that don't use electricity. (We got our kitchen stove there.) And I got to thinking, that my version of the tropical-island house has too many bathrooms and toilets that wouldn't really work. I mean-- where do you get water pressure to flush if the whole island is flat? And why do you need private bathrooms if the whole island is private? Wouldn't just one composting toilet, maybe in the basement, be good enough?

Anyway I did make the mistake of mentioning this idea to my dad, who immediately poured over the whole website and concluded, as I did, that Harbour Cay is the very plum of the whole selection, and for the same reasons I said. We then started drawing plans on his computer using the home-design programme he has (he designed this house with it). We ironed out a lot of the issues I had and came up with more problems and then solved those too. And then, of course, Daddy had to mention it at dinner.

'Five hundred thousand dollars,' he said. 'Empty lots in South Jersey cost more than that.'

Mother only shook her head, smiling. 'They're improved, dear,' she said. 'Where do we get water? --or power?'

'We make it,' he said, 'or we do without.' Then he and I ranted on about our ideas so far. This got Jessy and Lisa and even JJ all enthused about it and we all went on and on and on till someone, I don't remember which of us, realised that this wasn't such a kooky plan but could actually work. I mean-- Daddy has offshore savings accounts, and, as he said, Belize is as good a place as any to invest. It's politically stable, it's actually enjoying a pretty good investment market, it's got a temperate climate, it's mostly improved with power, cable TV, and Internet, it's full of North American necessities like natural gas, gasoline, fresh water supplies and sewage systems, everyone speaks English and the US dollar is taken everywhere. And Harbour Cay is hardly remote, only about five miles offshore and therefore within sight of a mainland boatyard. Theoretically we lived farther offshore than that when we lived at Long Beach Island!

Daddy said it would be cool to fly down and have a look at it. After all, if they know who he is, it's sure that they'll consider him seriously as a potential customer. Lots of retired rock musicians buy properties in the Caribbean. He could probably even get a good deal on it.

Then Mother said, 'Well, you can't blame me if I think it's a little nuts to just pack up and leave for some tropical island on a second's notice like this.'

We all sighed and looked at her. Mother is as much a daydreamer as anyone, but she's also too intelligent to give over all sense, you know. Daddy sighed too. 'I suppose you're right,' he said quietly.

'I mean,' Mother said, not quite looking up yet, 'I've put away all my swimsuits. You'd have to give me about twenty minutes.'

When she looked up we were all staring back at her with our mouths hanging open. I still have shivers in my spine from it.

...

Older men and young women

Thursday, 11 March 2010

The regularly-scheduled meeting of our girls' social club convened in our basement, as the last few have done. We have been holding them-- believe it or not-- in the TV theatre room, because it works pretty well as a small auditorium. There are couches on the platform across the back to seat about seven girls (if they all truly like each other) and chairs and a couch in front to see five more. The club officers (that would be me, Jessy, Paulette and Rita) sit in chairs in front of the TV screen (which does NOT get turned on till the whole meeting's actual agenda gets accomplished, honest. And no, we don't use PowerPoint). The club numbers 14 now, plus Lisa when she thinks to wander in. No-one thinks she is a bother and she is rarely conspicuous-- unless someone grabs her to sit on a lap, as happened tonight.

We did not, however, quite get to finish the whole agenda because of someone else making an interruption. And though the interruption came from the far end of the house, it was more than anyone wanted to ignore for long.

Daddy has recently started jamming with a couple of guys from the neighbouring area, two brothers about his age who like a lot of the same '80s music. They set up the guitar amps and a PA system in the 'work room' that connects Mother's exercise room to the garages and meet there about once a week just to drink beer and run through their repertoire. They have no drummer and usually just use an electronic rhythm box, but often they are singing or telling jokes to each other through the PA and it's kind of hard to not hear them.

I really do not know why they did not observe the five or six extra cars in the front yard tonight. Maybe they did.

Anyway Lisa jumped off Sally's lap and went running in the moment she recognised one of Daddy's old songs, and, of course, being Lisa, she left the door open. Obviously she left the door to the exercise room open too, for next we were inundated with super-distortion guitar sounds and someone (one if his friends, not Daddy) wailing out lyrics. The girls all giggled, then one or two got up to look out the door, and by 8.30 the meeting was pretty much over. I got up, planted my hands on my hips, and stomped down through the house to scold you-know-who (I don't mean Lisa). I got down there and Daddy was just sitting down to the drums-- oh, right, now he has drums in there! --to play. The three men (and Lisa) all looked up and I stood my ground. I was still in the navy-blue tights and plaid club skirt and grey club sweatshirt and still with my hands on my hips. I must have looked like a very angry Sunday-school teacher.

'Oh, hello,' Daddy said, from behind the drums. Then-- drum crash, cymbals, cymbals, cymbals, cymbals....

'"Oh, hello"?' I said. 'Did you happen to know there's a meeting going on the other end of this house?'

The men laughed. Daddy looked a little sheepish. 'Oh, but I thought the doors were closed.'

Then I turned and scowled at Lisa. She immediately got a little red and scurried round behind the drums-- where, of course, Daddy put her on her lap. Before I could get out another word she was tapping cymbals.

Someone looked up and when I turned round there were five or six faces crowding in the door behind me. This was not a good omen.

And 'omen' is what I call it, for it did portend the next hour and a half, namely that first I, and then Jessy, and then a few other girls, all had to-- really were told to, but it amounts to the same thing-- sing along to whatever the men played. I personally sang lead on 'Favorite Waste of Time' and, ironically, 'Favorite Mistake'. Jessy sang with Daddy on 'Stop Dragging My Heart Around'. Lisa sang 'Stop In The Name of Love' (yes, she knows it-- we were all 'raised on the classics' as Daddy says. And she has the volume for it). Some other people sang some other songs. Mother came down with iced tea and, of course, little JJ, whose room is two storeys above the exercise room and so he couldn't get to sleep either. Mother would not be prevailed upon to sing-- not in front of Daddy's friends anyway. But when JJ had been taken back up stairs after falling asleep in the party room down the hall and Lisa was being tucked into bed, Mother descended to the big parlour and sat at the piano in the near-darkness. I heard her tender touch from the kitchen and for fear of disturbing her only lurked just the other side of the open doorway in the small parlour.

It was one of Daddy's songs (I shall not say which), the ballad he had given A Certain British Ingenue during his sojourn in London. It's Mother's half-sister's favourite work if his. But who knew Mother knew it so well?

I listened whilst she played it, with no hesitation or mistakes, and my eyes went wet. Only Daddy's footfalls as he came up to the kitchen, about to find her there himself, made me tiptoe out to the front hall and dash up stairs.

...

I am sick

Ash Wednesday 17 February

I was up too late last night, mainly because I had had a nap earlier in the evening. I hate when that happens. I finally turned in at about 3.00 am and had to get up early to receive ashes before school. I was not in proper shape for it and by noon I felt awful with a terrible sore throat that felt like the roof of my mouth was bleeding every time I swallowed. So I called Roger, signed myself out and went home.

Mother was surprised to see me but when she realised I really am sick she sent me up here to my room with a cup of hot tea with a little syrup in it. I got out of my school things and into a warm flannel shift with a sweatshirt on over it and some high cotton stockings and am nestled in my bed amidst all my blankets and with the curtains drawn on the bed to keep out draughts. And I will be fine... I hope. I have a singing date on Saturday for one of Daddy's acts and I don't want this to go till then. So I hope the understanding will forgive me for babying myself a little for just a sore throat.

In any case I am lonely and can't wait for Jessy to get home.

...

Snowed-in

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

These last few days of snow have been terrifically hectic... and there's no reason why. We had school the early part of the week, but in anticipation of the threatened snow storm we all settled in on Tuesday night-- all of us, Daddy and Mother and JJ being home, little Lisa, me, Jessy and also Rita, Jessy's friend. The storm hit late in the evening, it snowed for an hour or two, not lightly, and by midnight it was over. A weird phosphorescence settled over the bay outside my window-- the only one I have unshuttered-- like a bizarre white fog upon the water even though it was about 20 degrees out there. I sat at my little round table here and stared out at it till well past midnight. It was not the reflection of light-- there aren't many houses along here and none of them have the kind of candlepower that could throw that much of the air outside into a haze. It was like a signal of a shift in the weather, the kind of thing you often see out over the ocean, but I have never seen anything like that (and I've lived all my life, except for 2 years, within 50 metres of the beach). The atmosphere was white, but you could see through it, almost as well as if it were daytime. I could just about make out the horizon beyond the barrier island that's directly out there. I half expected to see someone sailing through the night.

Since Rita was sleeping in with Jessy, Lisa believed that this meant she should sleep in with me. As I have said before I don't mind this-- she is nice to snuggle with, warm and soft and fluffy in her flannel nightgown and fuzzy socks, and it's the kind of thing she appreciates like a very high honour. She was asleep for some hours when I turned in. Of course none of us expected school on Wednesday.

And the weather did not disappoint us. We had mostly freezing rain till about 10.00 when it got really bad. Wind picked up and soon we were being besieged with heavy sleet, going more sideways than down. Daddy started a fire in the kitchen so when we all came down to a rather late brunch it was just lovely in there. Mother made pancakes, the true southern-style hotcakes that she learned to make when she relocated here as our au pair years ago. She just kept serving them up, one after the other, and we devoured them. Outside the sleet hammered the window and the roof deck above the garage filled up with icy snow drifts. Daddy said he thought the pool cover, which is normally supported with a frame underneath it, has caved in, which will leave a big mess in the pool. But of course none of us are inclined to go out and inspect it in this.

Most of the downstairs windows have been shuttered through most of the winter weather, especially the French windows in the small parlour which has been shuttered since we took down the tree after Epiphany. It keeps the heat loss down (since we have authentic single-glazed windows here!) and makes it very dark and somewhat cosy inside, but in this weather you hear it all against the glass and it's very unsettling. Rita and Jessy retired to her room, took turns showering, and sat there fawning over FaceBook most of the afternoon. I had showered before brunch and had put on my long fleece pulli and ballet legwarmers (that's about it). I started a little fire in my room and sat at my table, reading in 'Northanger Abbey' (for about the third time). Lisa isn't allowed to use her fireplace and so, smelling mine, brought some Barbies in here and began in some high-pitched dialogue to comment on the events of the week. Most of the time her Barbies go to school the days she does and, in spite of the fact that they look about 17 or 20 years old, what they study seems to be about what a first-grader studies. I suppose that's to be expected.

When my fire died down she talked me into playing with her so I took my Barbies out of their own house (which stands in my room) and went in to her room, where she has her own dolls' house, just like the ones Jessy and I have. Daddy made them all, based on one Jessy and I adapted for our Barbies from an unused stereo cabinet, and when pushed all together for special occasions they resemble half a block of Philadelphia or London terraces. My Barbies are still in their Colonial costumes so I pretended they were time-travellers and allowed Lisa's people to show us round this strange new century. Jessy heard us and came in to see what we were about, still talking on the mobile phone, so I made a few amazed observations about this incredibly large person, six times our height, talking to someone in another dimension on what looks like a very large pocketwatch. Lisa giggled herself silly by the time that was over.

The snow continued till it had got dark and I think none of us have been out of the house all day. The bridge up the road is closed, leaving a very long and equally tedious trip up and round through town, so we rang Rita's parents and told them she would not be home. This is all fine with Rita-- for it saves her the trouble of getting dressed to go out. I do not mean she would rather not put on boots and long underwear and sweaters and all that-- I mean she would rather not be dressed at all, for she, Jessy, little Lisa and I are all barely dressed, in long flannel shifts and high socks or thigh-high hose, with the odd sweater or snugglie blanket accompanying us. There is something lovely about being cooped-up when we don't have to worry about impressing anyone but ourselves, and there is firewood and hot tea and family to keep us company all round the house.

I have got the e-mail saying school is closed tomorrow as well. Apparently they have not got the ploughs out to the school yards tonight. So I can imagine that tomorrow will bring more of the same!

...

Emergent occasions

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

We got a phone call very early this morning that my uncle had had a heart attack and had been flown to Philadelphia for surgery. This immediately upset my father to the point of insisting that he drive up there straight away. Little JJ was not even out of bed (and he is an early riser) and Daddy and Mother were packing things and getting ready to go. I stood there stuffing a toasted muffin into my mouth whilst they scurried round with suitcases and so on.

Of course Mother would not let him go alone. They would be taking JJ with them, so that he could stay with our other uncle's family in southern New Jersey for a few days whilst Mother and Daddy went on to Philadelphia. We were fortunate to have had Roger here the last few days-- working on the new (old) Buick project with Daddy, and so they would have him and the dark-green car for the ride. But it meant that I would be left to see little Lisa off to school for the next few mornings, and to arrive late each day myself (as her school starts an hour after mine, so I will miss first and half of second period by the time I get there. But, it cannot be helped).

Before they left this morning we did get another phone call and the news that our uncle had probably not had a true heart attack but that he has significant arterial blockage and so will need some bypass surgery. Other than this (significant but manageable) problem he is doing well. Daddy was relieved. But still they would leave at 9.00.

Roger drove Jessy in so she would not be late today and then would return for Daddy and Mother and little JJ who was getting dressed though crankily. I made a breakfast for Lisa and helped her get dressed and drove her in myself, a few minutes late, in the Regal and then got myself over to the high school. Of course we get out earlier so I was able, with Jessy, to drive over there and pick up Lisa when she got done. As of right now we are three girls on our own in the castle for probably the rest of the week.

Our uncle is out of his surgery and doing well-- they expect him to be much improved by week's end when they will release him. I rang my aunt in southern New Jersey and got a few updates and got to talk with JJ too. He is having fun with his cousins and does not fully understand the serious issues of his visit there. This is probably best.

I spoke with Daddy too and though he is relieved he is still concerned. 'It could happen to any of us,' he said. 'You always think it'll be the other guy, but it could be you, you know.'

'But you are very healthy,' I told him, 'and you work out and walk and ride the bike. And you don't smoke.'

Our uncle has always smoked cigarettes. It is a source of concern through the whole family. 'Yeah, but I could be better. And they're saying it's not due to the cigarettes.'

'What else would it be due to?' I asked (yes, incorrect grammar and all).

'I don't know. I told him as soon as he gets better we're all starting a fitness routine.'

Daddy already has a fitness routine. As casual as he has always been about other things (diet, paying bills, wearing ironed clothes) he has always enjoyed just doing physical things like walking, running, riding stationary and two-wheeled bicycles and of course swimming. He and I have a little competition on the rowing machine down stairs, trying to improve our 2k times. I am down to about 9:17-- and, by the way, have lost about 2 lbs of holiday-season fat.

Our other uncle tends to be a bit more rigorous in his fitness than either of his elder brothers and we worry perhaps less about his health than anyone's. Tonight they are both at Gran's house farther up in New Jersey and one aunt stays with her husband in hospital and the other is minding four little kids at the farmhouse. All the signs look good and so I have relaxed my own concern and left it all to God. I think sometimes this is all we can do.

For supper Jessy and Lisa (meaning Jessy, with Lisa sitting on the counter asking questions and talking incessantly) made a frozen entree of roast beef with fried mashed potatoes left over from Gran's birthday dinner and cranberry sauce and (mostly cold) broccoli. I planned for tomorrow to have macaroni-and-cheese casserole with the leftover chicken in it. I think we will not starve soon.

Lisa did ask to sleep in with me tonight but as of now she is in Lisa's bed, probably asleep if I care to go look whilst Jessy bangs away on the computer on FaceBook and Twitter and wherever else she needs to broadcast her news to her friends. We made sure Lisa brushed her teeth early because we kind of figured she would end up like this. I will leave my door open on the gallery side anyway in case she comes looking for me at two AM.

Oh, and I wrote a note for the school saying I will be missing first period all week because of getting my little sister to school and of course the teacher and the guidance people were fine with that-- British literature? --my major? --are you kidding? There is another section of the same class during fifth and they asked if I wanted to just sit in on that and miss lunch, but I said no way. Anyway I have the textbook, like I haven't read all that stuff already. And I can write my paper from home.

So we will be all right for the short term. Thanks be to God.

...

The bed-bug

Thursday morning, 7 January 2010

'Janiiiiine!' came the urgent whisper.

I squeezed my eyes shut and turned onto my back in the bed. As I turned back onto my side I found the strength to open them, and there she was in her shin-length flannel nightgown, hair mussed, pink fluffy bunny held up to her chest, staring straight at me in the near-blackness of the room, two feet away. Instantly my eyes went wide-open. 'What's wrong?' I asked, worried.

'I'm collllld!'

I made half a face. 'You're cold?'

She nodded, urgently, as though this were an issue of the gravest importance.

'What's wrong with your bed? Go get yourself tucked in.'

'I can't! The covers are all twisted.'

I sighed and rolled onto my back again, turning my head to see the clock. It glowed, faintly-- 2.10 a.m. I sighed more and turned back to her, lifting the covers to let her in. She seemed to brighten immediately and snuggled in on her side in front of me as I shifted backwards a little to the other pillow. Then I pulled over the flannel sheet, cotton comforter, heavy bedspread and thick microfleece blanket, tucking it all in round her knees and elbows and leaving my arm round her hips, actually holding her lower hip to keep her close to me. It was actually very cosy, with her soft flannel bottom nestled into my lap and her head right under my chin.

She sighed, happy to be warm and to have got her way, and I batted some of her hair aside and got myself comfortable again against the colder pillow. I let out another sigh, the deep sigh of getting comfortable again, and she mimicked me, like that game we sometimes play-- one of us will exhale like that and the other will copy it, and it evolves into this teasing contest of holding our breath and seeing who has to inhale or exhale first, and there are plenty of tricks to fool the other one into breathing in too much or not holding onto enough air long enough, you know. But I would not play with her tonight. In another minute-- I think-- we were asleep.

...

'Janiiiiine!'

This time I didn't move. I just opened my eyes.

Lisa lay facing me, her nose about eight inches from my own. 'What's that music?'

It was the Brandenburg No.6 playing quietly on my iPod which goes off as my alarm-- not the first movement... so that meant it was barely 6.05. I sighed. 'Are you still here?'

She made a cute little smile at me. 'My room is still cold,' she whispered.

'Were you up?'

'No.' She held the bunny up under her chin, like she does, right between us. I kissed the bunny's face and peeled back the covers behind myself to back out, leaving her in the warm middle of the bed. With Bach still playing I pulled out some black underwear and a black t-shirt and went round to my bathroom.

Halfway through my shower she tapped lightly on the door and then opened it a bit. 'Can I come in?' she called, in a scarcely-louder version of the same urgent whisper she uses in the middle of the night.

'You don't have to get up,' I told her from behind the curtain.

'I need the potty!' she said, half giggling, and went round the bath to it. When she was done she knocked on the vinyl shower curtain. 'When are you coming out?'

'When I'm done, of course. Go get yourself back into the bed and stay warm.'

'Okay!' she said happily, for she knew we both expected her to get back into MY bed.

She was asleep when I came out. I pulled on the black leggings and the oversize oatmeal sweater I had left on the chair for last night, and Jessy came in, in her own charcoal-grey leggings and heavy blue-and-black chequered flannie, as I was pulling up my socks. 'Hey. What's happened to--'

'Shhh,' I said, and pointed. Jessy saw the little lump under all my covers and nodded. 'Two a.m.,' I told her.

Jessy smiled. 'Are you just going to let her stay there?' she whispered.

I shrugged. 'Why not?'

'Well, at least she got warm. Her door was open. All hers are on the floor.'

I turned off the iPod to let her sleep and Jessy and I went down stairs. I suppose I should have done homework last night, but there was Epiphany Mass and the vicar's party afterwards and we had all got home quite late. I would have to get myself out of this predicament somehow.

In the kitchen there was a lovely little fire going. Mother took a kettle off the fire and poured out for tea. I informed her that Lisa had come into my bed last night so she'd know where to find her, and Jessy and I stood at the counter to share a toasted English muffin with strawberry jam with our tea. Daddy came down the side stairs and appeared in the doorway. 'Do you have anything important to do today?' he wondered.

I looked over at him. 'Well, school,' I said.

Jessy looked up. 'I have a test in history,' she said.

Daddy pointed at her. 'You'll go for that,' he said, and then he turned and pointed at me, like to tease. 'And you?'

I recognised my opportunity. 'Nothing I can't make up,' I said at once. 'Although I didn't get much sleep last night, seeing as the bed-bug came into my bed at about two o'clock.'

He smiled. 'Did she? Well, you can sleep in the car. David and Kurt are coming round to put down vocals and I could use you on the board... probably in the booth too.'

I nodded and set the books bag down in a chair. So! --I wouldn't need that today! 'But of course. When do we go?'

'We'll drop this one on the way out, and then leave. Roger's driving us. It might not be all day. It's supposed to snow tonight.'

Jessy scowled at me. 'I have a test in history, and you have this?'

I shrugged. 'You wouldn't want to have to take it tomorrow.'

'We might not even have school tomorrow,' she said.

'And then you'd have to take it Monday.'

'It won't be a big snow,' Daddy said, and went out to the side stairs again.

Just as we were gathering in the hall, little Lisa came hurrying down the front stairs. Without a word she ran up and threw her arms round me. I hugged her back. 'Thank you for keeping me warm,' she said sweetly.

I bent down and kissed her. 'You kept me warm too!'

She giggled. 'Can I keep you warm tonight too?'

'I think what we will do is get your bed all in order, and all your covers tucked-in, and then you and that silly rabbit will be just fine together.'

She smiled at me. 'Okay,' she said, and leaned up and kissed me too. 'I love you.'

'And I love you, good angel.'

'Snug as two bugs in a rug,' Jessy said to me as we descended outside to the car with Daddy. 'She really is a good little snuggler.'

I smiled. 'Like you were,' I reminded her.

'Hey! Still am.'

'I'm sure.'

...

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!

...

Christmas observances at Terncote

24-25-26 December, 2009

Our family tends to over-celebrate most holidays, at least as far as putting events on the schedule. For example, I had two birthday parties, one for my friends on Friday and another for the family-- Gran, and my uncles and aunts and cousins-- who have much farther to travel to be with us. I recall times when I was much younger when I would have three parties, including one at school. And this is typical of us, you know-- why have one party when you can have more. And, of course, this calls for three cakes, which in turn calls for the rowing machine... but I digress.

Once all the shopping and baking is done and the tree is brought inside and trimmed there is candlelight Mass on Christmas Eve, including the singing of 'Silent Night' (the ONLY time that song occurs in the church liturgy), and then it is home again for hot cocoa and Christmas wishes and family thanksgiving prayers, and then Daddy reads 'A Visit From St Nicholas' from the the little book we have had since we were little, turning it round to show all the pictures as though he were a kindergarten teacher, and more often than not making fun of the verses and illustrations that Jessy and I, at least, have seen and heard over a dozen times before. Then the little ones are tucked in and everyone has kisses good-night and Jessy and I promise to not wake up too soon in the morning in order to allow Daddy and Mother a bit more rest than they've got these last few days.

Then Daddy does his magic-- and it's always magic, for always there is more than any one of us has expected, and I don't mean just a quantity of gifts, for since Lisa was old enough to understand the material aspect of Christmas Mother has been adamant that we won't 'buy into it'-- we really do not receive many gifts at all and our parents believe quality is better than quantity, so what we receive, and in turn give to each other, is what we all really want, and not just some stuff to outdo the neighbours, you know. Daddy has developed a certain knack for 'doing Christmas' over the years-- well, it perhaps started with our old house in Delaware with one electrical outlet under each window all on the same circuit, so the electric candles in the windows could be activated all at the same time (and still are, there as here, for the house in Delaware has always been decorated like a showpiece for Christmas). He once made a device in the attic there to simulate a patter of reindeer hoofs on the roof, but he found out that it was a little too subtle and that Jessy and I never heard it. In the past he has created mysterious footprints in the snow or rearranged things round certain rooms and left hints that someone benevolent but not of our family has been here. We always set out cookies and milk for Santa and they are always mostly gone, usually exchanged for a handwritten thank-you note that is apparently NOT in Daddy's handwriting. The year Mommy died I sent a letter to Santa asking him to bring her something for Christmas up in heaven and I received in my stocking a very pretty letter in return, in which Santa said he was sorry for our family's loss, that no amount of extra gifts could ever make up for it, and that sometimes these sad things happen even to very good children like me and the best we can all do is continue to have faith in God and to remember that He loves us, especially when we are so afflicted, and so on. I still have the letter, of course. (It will probably go on display at the house in Delaware some day.) The important thing is that the letter from Santa was NOT done on Daddy's computer. It was done in red ink-- and we did not have a colour printer at that time. It used a font Daddy never uses. And the envelope and signature are NOT in Daddy's handwriting (not Mother's either, as she was still our nanny then). I was nine then, almost to the age when you begin to doubt Santa, and the letter only reinforced Santa's existence to me for another couple of years.

(Jessy says I will grow up and marry Santa Claus and become Mrs Claus. I would be perfectly fine with that-- I would get to help make Christmas wonderful for children round the world, I would be working in charity, I would be able to bake cookies, and it would be one of those unselfish occupations that I seem to be drawn to. There are only two things I would need to change about the way Santa traditionally works. One is that I would NOT want to live at the North Pole. The other is that Santa would have to work out on the rowing machine. How someone has been able to last all those years on a high-fat diet of cookies and milk is beyond me... but it shall stop with me. Get used to it, Santa my future husband.)

In the morning JJ and Lisa will be up at about 6.00-- they are never up so early at any other morning of the year. Jessy and I are responsible for keeping them upstairs and in our end of the house till 7.00-- that's the limit Mommy set long ago and which we still keep as tradition. Then making sure everyone is in warm pyjamas or robes and slippers and socks, for the down-stairs of this house is never toasty-warm at that hour, we march down to our parents' room and knock on the door. This year JJ flew down the stairs ahead of us all. The tradition is that we empty stockings first-- there they all are, six in a row, hanging from the fireplace mantel in the small back parlour. They are all hand-knitted in wool yarn and decorated with bells and tassels and Christmas symbols both secular and Christian. Daddy's was made by his godmother for his first Christmas (when he was four weeks old). Mine and Jessy's were made by our Gran when we were infants (I was 2 weeks old at my first Christmas and Jessy was four months). Mother's was made by Mommy for the first year our lovely young au pair (and future nanny and stepmother) was with us. Of course all these have a very special significance, especially Mother's. And then there are the ones for JJ and Lisa, which Mother made, following the patterns Mommy left to her, which were left to Mommy by our Gran. Though it's only a secular symbol for the child's aspect of Christmas the stocking is something that will never be phased out of this family-- Daddy's is as old as he is and is still lovingly preserved and used every year.

We keep Mommy's own stocking, which Gran made for her as a welcome gift for her first Christmas in this family, preserved in paper and linen at the house in Delaware, which Jessy insists she will look after for ever. Of course Mommy is with us every Christmas in spirit, and always will be.

This year we had a horrid little snowfall on Saturday which interrupted the shopping spree Jessy and I had planned but actually did last till Christmas morning, so we can at least say we have had a white Christmas. We took plenty of pictures both out the windows and of us standing in front of the French windows at the back of the parlour with the snow in background. After an hour or so spent opening gifts we had a leisurely brunch of pancakes and listened to traditional carols on CD. Mommy served an early tea and then I helped her with making a pleasant Virginia ham supper.

We are honoured and happy to have with us this year Mother's mum from Queensland, who has been installed in our guest room since she flew in on Wednesday. We have not seen her in over a year. Our uncle and aunt are down from the Poconos and visited with our other uncle and aunt, and Gran, in New Jersey before driving down here for dinner. They never stay at Terncote with us but take a place at a motel in Chincoteague (about 30 minutes away). They stayed in this part of the world through our the Boxing Day party.

For the Boxing Day party we invited just about everyone we know, especially locally, like our friends from school and their parents, to come and crash on us for part of the afternoon. This is a new tradition, suggested by Mother kind of in honour of her mum being here but also because Boxing Day is a Saturday so for once people can actually observe it and not merely return to work like the whole holiday is over, because it's not, not yet, not till Epiphany at least.

At the party Daddy forced us all to sing-- maybe I would rather have not, but this is his way of insisting that we have as much experience before an audience as possible. I mean there were people there from school and everything. Daddy played guitar for Mother to sing 'Greensleeves' and I sang 'To Sir, With Love,' because I had been working on it, and there were a few others like this though the highlight was Jessy singing 'O Holy Night' which sends shivers down your spine. It's like listening to an angel. Daddy says he gets weepy-eyed from it. I do too. This year she sang it with Lisa holding her hand and staring up at her in boundless admiration. Those two really are two of a kind.

I write this Monday morning, catching my breath-- aside from the trip yesterday I was inside this house from church Christmas Eve till leaving for Philadelphia Sunday morning, but it's all been busy so I haven't had a chance to catch up on any of it till now. I truly hope everyone has been having a blessed and happy Christmas... and that we all remember the true reason for the season.

...

On becoming 18

Saturday, 12 December 2009

Today is my first 'full day' of being... 'legal'. Well-- I must go back.

I was born at 12.04 in the morning, so actually when I woke up yesterday I had been 18 for about 6 hours. Before leaving the house Jessy gave me a little plastic tiara to wear and then helped me do my hair for it. 'You're the birthday girl,' she said seriously.

'This is going to be embarrassing,' I said. 'They're already hating us for the skirts.'

'No one hates you for anything,' she insisted.

At school they (people, mysterious people) decorated my locker with wrapping-paper and stick-on bows and bits of ribbon and a big sign that said 'She's a big girl now!' I still do not know exactly who it was who did it because Jessy was riding in to school with me. Apparently I am one of the eldest girls in the class (as I was at HOH too), since I can't remember anyone else having an 18th birthday yet this year. Jessy got pictures of me in front of the locker, which was really a work of art, and they're on my FaceBook as well as on Jessy's and then they're tagged on everyone else's too. As silly as it looked, it was pretty touching.

A couple of my teachers knew it was my birthday and lent their best wishes. At home in the evening some friends came over and Mother hosted the party. There was angel-food cake and whipped white ice cream and Dr Pepper and they made me wear the tiara from school all evening. Lisa was in her glory, sitting through a big-girls' party and being able to be more of a hostess (or, in her case, a presenter) than an underaged guest. She got up and read a poem she wrote-- all right, four lines, and the rhymes were imperfect, but she is six, and it was very touching. (I put the text of it-- and her pic-- on FaceBook, so it won't be here.)

I type this now sitting up in my bed and feeling very tired from a pretty intense day and the only thing I can wonder is what will happen when people read this blog and encounter me on AOL where I usually am. Oh, I am 18 now. I am... 'legal'. People will assume things.

First, exactly what does it mean that I am 'legal'? Legal for what? I may vote next year, but I may not drink. I may get married, move out of my parents' house, get any job I can be hired to, contract a loan, own my own car, drop out of school or enrol anywhere else. These are profound things, but I'm pretty sure (after 16 months on AOL) that the people who say I am now 'legal' don't mean any of these things.

The more important thing is that I don't FEEL any different. This could have been my 16th birthday, or my 15th. There wasn't anything exclusively '18th' about the day at all. I am still in school, still at home, still with the same friends, still driving Daddy's car, and so on. I mean I have never made any plans for any profound changes that would happen on the day I turned 18. Was I supposed to? A few weeks ago Daddy happened to mention that we would 'have to' go to the investment counsellor and have my name added to my accounts as a primary signer, meaning that I would be able to withdraw from my trust fund on my own, without asking Daddy. But I cannot imagine ever, ever doing that. It's all his money-- he put it aside for me, and I always figured that was for when he was no longer with us, not when I turned into a just-18 brat who could claim everything he worked so hard for and buy a blinged-out SUV with it. He hasn't mentioned it since (since he can be as bubbleheaded as I can be at times) and I really don't have any incentive to mention it myself. I really don't care about the money. Mother said, 'It's your responsibility as an adult now.' She knows, because she was a young bride and at one time she had to step into so much of all these responsibilities when Mommy died.

I will put in here that my stepmother and Daddy do NOT have a prenuptial agreement about the money. She could take him for all she could get if she chose... but she never would, because she loves him too much to ever leave him, and that is obvious to us all every day. I wouldn't have a prenuptial agreement either, no matter how much money or possessions or real estate I had. I just would not marry anyone whom I had to worry about in that way. Maybe that's naive-- but now you know why I am such a prig about myself. I would always prefer to be happy and innocent of a great offence, and not live in suspicion and guilt... and nothing you say is going to change my mind about it.


The people who approach me online will be pleased to find out I am 'legal' now. For them, this means that they are allowed to chat with me about sex. They will ask me about my own sexual experience, what I think of other sexual issues, what I want or fantasise about, and most importantly what I want to do online (meaning masturbate) with them. Oh, and I can share pictures with them, especially pictures of me naked or engaged in sex acts.

Does any of this sound like anything I would ever have done at any age? But you can't reason with such people. Because, my being 'legal' is not about what I want or do or say at all. It's about THEM. What they're most interested in is what they can get away with, not what I want. In many ways I cease to be a lady to them-- or a child. Now I am a target, an eligible candidate for their prurient interests. See, that's all it's about. They want to know whether they can apply their nasty, immature, self-centred, illogical and inappropriate fantasies to me or not. They actually believe that because I am now over 18, I have magically changed somehow into a totally different person. On December 10th I was a child who could get them into trouble. If they chatted with me, shared anything with me, even just said hello, I would get them into trouble. I was 'jailbait'.

Now see how illogical this is. Was it ME getting them into trouble? Was I the 'bait' that lured them in? Was I the active party in any of it? Or is it more likely that THEY were to be the guilty party in all of it? Weren't THEY the ones seeking an exceptionally young chick to chat with (as in 'barely legal')? Weren't THEY the ones who wanted to apply their fantasies to me? Weren't THEY the ones who wanted to suggest the topic (sex) and to chat with me online about it? What on earth had I do to with any of it, except that such people seem to believe their fantasies are best 'shared' with someone else?

Now you will know what I believe about this kind of fantasy? It's all one -sided-- if I chose to play along, they wouldn't want the truth about how I would react or what I would say if they should happen to do this or that. They really only want me to fulfill their idea of how it should go. In a way I am just acting to script that I haven't seen yet. So it's very likely I won't live up to their fantasies anyway. In fact I would say that no girl ever would be able to. You'd have to be a total cretin to just follow along with what the guy is saying and do whatever he says, and then I have to wonder where the fun is in that for him. It's like saying, 'I imagine you will take off your bra now and show your beautiful D-sized breasts.' And the girls takes off her bra now and shows her beautiful D-sized breasts. It really would not matter if I were a B or a C, or if I were not wearing a bra at all. He doesn't want reality, he wants me to go, 'Okay, I shall now take off my bra and show my beautiful D-sized breasts.' And he will go, 'Very nice. Now spread your legs and--' and so on.

The sad thing is that 99.9 percent of men who will approach me on AOL with ideas of fantasies will never take the effort to read even two sentences of this blog, so they won't ever know a thing about me. I shall continue to do as I have always done and chose to interact with only the polite and intelligent people who care enough about whom they chat with ti get to know me as a person. And yes, that is many more people than some might think. And no, it has nothing to do with the name of the chat room I am in. I am still a person and still a lady and still entitled to respect. I am not baiting you into jail and I am not responsible for what you want to chat about and what's on your mind. And if you think that because it is now December 12th and I am 18, so that makes it 'legal' to say offensive, rude, impertinent and inappropriate things to a lady you have just met, then you will get the same reaction from me as you would have got on December 10th.

...

Thanksgiving weekend 2009

Our Thanksgiving weekend was very nice. As we have done in the past we drove up to the beach house in New Jersey, which is closer to family. Jessy and I left directly from school, with Roger driving us in the green Cadillac, and we met Lisa, who had have a day, and Mother and Daddy and JJ when we got there. On Thursday morning I helped in the kitchen whilst Jessy played with the little ones. Unfortunately the dining room here is only small, so we set up the other table in the kitchen for the six of us, Daddy's uncle and aunt, Daddy's cousin and his girlfriend, and Gran. Our two uncles were to go elsewhere for the evening-- though we did have a Skype conversation with our cousins after the meal.

Friday was crisp and clear, though I had a bit of a headache from overindulging in turkey and wine and stayed in bed for about half of it. Gran and Daddy's uncle and aunt came back, and with them, our uncle and aunt and cousins, for it was Daddy's birthday. Gran, who was staying with us, made the world's best chocolate cake which Daddy says is the best present he could ever ask for. My headache was gone and I indulged in two pieces (not very big ones though!).

On Saturday the day was a little warmer. Jessy and I had a walk on the beach and then went across town to visit some of our friends from this past summer. At their house we watched 'Twilight' on DVD (since none of us have seen 'New Moon' yet) and had crisps and pizza and soda. When it came time to walk home we were socked that the temperature had dropt about 20 degrees. Jessy and I attempted to brave it and finally ended up running full-tilt against the freezing-cold headwind and even that much exercise was not enough to make us sweat. I swear I went on shivering for half an hour after that.

And then on Sunday we had church on the Island, drove home, and arrived in time for an early-evening supper. It was somewhat warmer and I went online telling people I was in my usual bedtime ensemble, panties and socks and a sweatshirt (sometimes a jersey). Of course I had a nice fire in my room here and plenty of blankets.

Tonight (Monday) has been Mother's birthday. I made a cake using one of my mother's recipes which Mother loves, Jessy and Daddy made dinner (linguine and fish with pesto sauce) and we all sang the song and all. Later Mother's mother rang from Australia (I can never tell what time it is there! --sixteen hours one way or the other).

And, of course, school resumes....

My dad still likes to drag-race

Saturday 21 November 2009

Depending on what car he is driving, my dad likes to drive fast. I don't mean he drives ridiculously fast, like it's unsafe. He just has a habit of going a little more than the posted limits. He says a higher average speed keeps up his times... as though he's racing.

Actually at one time my dad did get a sports-car-racing licence. It has long since elapsed, since he no longer logs any time on race tracks (unlike my uncle who races frequently up in Pennsylvania). But he always says it is one of two reasons why he looks at every driving situation like he would look at a race. He has these sayings, like 'Lane selection is key' and 'Check six for challenges', things like that. The whole purpose of driving for him is to get where you're going as quickly and safely as possible. He says, 'A good race is when you arrive at the finish line alive. A great race is when they can use the car again someday.' The other reason is that he grew up learning to drive when they had the 55-MPH speed limits, which truckers hated because it meant they could not legally average a mile a minute. So like the truckers my dad learned to push the limits a little-- which, yes, kind of made the 55-MPH speed limit sort of ineffective.

We were out this morning in the '65 Wildcat convertible, going up to the music store in Salisbury and on the way home, trying to get back for my all-call at 6.00, we found ourselves in the middle lane needing to get over to the right. And on our right was a 1968 Dodge Charger being driven by a girl-- young woman-- not much older than me, about 21 maybe, with bushy curly dark hair and pretty dark eyes-- Italian-looking, very pretty. I wondered how she had got such an exquisite old car-- it was deep maroon with a black top such as they had then and gleaming chrome wheels, very pretty like herself actually. Maybe it was her father's and he had let her drive it-- unlike my dad who won't let me close to the driver's seat on any of his! Anyway she had a stick shift-- we could hear her going through gears. I sort of envied her.

Daddy ran up through second upon leaving the traffic light. There were cars everywhere-- the mild weather had brought people out for shopping and just plain cruising. And a lot were classic cars-- part of the reason Daddy wanted to take the Wildcat on this trip, you know. And maybe it was why this lucky girl had stolen a chance to drive her daddy's Dodge Charger. She was accelerating mildly out of the traffic light and we pulled even with her. Daddy needed to get over to her lane for an upcoming turn and wound second out a little higher. That big Buick engine ran up and the exhaust growled. The girl, whom I could see now was not alone in the car, heard it and accelerated a little harder too. Daddy laughed.

'I think we're going to miss our exit,' he said, and leaned harder on the throttle.

The girl did too. The nose of the Charger pulled even with the nose of the Buick. Suddenly her whole car rocked back-- she had floored it.

Daddy floored it. 'Uh-oh,' he said, 'there goes the six-pack.'

'The what?' But I was shoved back into the seat with the acceleration then. Both of us roared off up the highway, fifty, sixty-- Daddy shifted to third-- seventy, nearly eighty when Daddy put it into fourth and let the girl go. The big Buick settled in at about 80 for a few moments and then he backed off. Fortunately the girl had made her point for she settled in just ahead of us as we glided into the right lane for the next exit. I knew that under any other circumstances Daddy would have run any guy about his age through 100 or so, whatever the two cars would take. But he was feeling a little protective of the girl in the Charger-- she was only some good man's daughter, as he likes to say, and it would look awful if he were the one who incited her to some horrific accident. If she would not know any better, he would, you know.

Nevertheless he went in to the exit ramp with the big wide tyres whining a little and proceeded to drive us home a little faster the whole way. I know he thinks fondly on the days when he had his first 1965 Wildcat and used to cruise the Boulevard on Long Beach Island with it all summer, attracting girls and the envy of boys as well. I know he got this second Wildcat and had it painted like the first just to relive, even a little, those days of teenaged glory. And I know he thinks Jessy and I find it a little immature, and he probably thinks Mother does too-- but, the thing is, we don't. We find it just one more part of him. You see, my dad has always been 'cool', not in the immature, irrational way like some young guys imagine they are 'cool'. My dad has always been sensible, rational, intelligent, you know, but there is a small slice of him that likes to look good in all situations. In the '80s he was noted as a fashion plate in rock-and-roll. He had the hair and the clothes and the guitars and was seen in places the average rocker was not-- Sotheby's auction, the National Trust sites, art museums and classical-music concerts and at the ballet. He paid attention to his widowed mother and participated in family functions. He hosted (conservative) politicians at his big place up in Menlo Park and gave to charities. He was seen with a number of young women, in New Jersey, New York, and London, where he tended to work in those days. And he made people's careers, not merely as a 'fashion plate' but as someone whose attention and concern-- almost as a father's-- made the difference between a young star making a stupid decision and a young star moving forward like a responsible professional. I never mention names-- not even my own here-- but if I were to, you would be surprised at who he has known and what he has done for them.

In many ways my dad is my hero. There are a few things about him I would not like to see in anyone who would become my husband-- he is very sloppy about clothes, procrastinates little things because of working on big things, spends too much time by himself and overtalks literature, music, art and philosophy, all of which my dear stepmother, who once adored him as a favourite teacher, has found out about him since she married him. But in most important things he is my role model for a man. He is naturally happy, optimistic, encouraging. He is artistic, creative, intelligent-- really a genius. He is warm, thoughtful, generous, affectionate. He is careful and logical, not prone to making stupid decisions for selfish reasons. And he is truly concerned about the welfare of the world, from the healthcare plan to the first club show of the newest starving future singing star.

And he drives the coolest metallic-blue 1965 Buick Wildcat convertible known to mankind, a car that will probably become mine some day (or J.J.'s) because it would never, ever be sold by Daddy or anyone else, if only because it reminds us all of what Daddy is-- a man who sees no great period of time between when he was 20 and when he was 50, because in all that time he has only ever been the same person through and through. He has matured and grown older, but he has remained the same in what really matters.

People have asked me if this is some weird Oedipus complex, and I can only say I don't know. First I have to ask, is there any reason my dad should NOT be my role model? Is there any reason I should not want to keep him company on a ride to the music store? Is there any reason why I should not ask him my most personal questions and then take his advice? Is there any reason why I should not admire him?

And then those people will ask me, if he were not my father, would I want to date him?

Well, maybe if he were still 20. [ha]

...

When Daddy gets mad

Wednesday 21 October

My dad almost never gets angry. I said this to someone once and the other person said, 'What does he have to get angry about, with his money.' That was very impolitic and I was offended. I do not think money has much to do with it at all. For one thing, many people with money are greedy and want more. My dad would probably rather get rid of some (and he does, to charity, but I won't go into that now). It's just that he has a positive mental attitude about most things. And if that's connected to money at all, it's that a positive mental attitude leads to money and not that money leads to a positive mental attitude, if you know what I mean.

Even so, I have seen him get mad a few times. Well-- more than a few times. He tends to become frustrated and irritated about injustices-- especially when they're directed at us or other she loves. He doesn't seem to care about other people's opinions or actions against himself. He says, 'Consider the source' --you know, because my dad is not an idiot and anyone who would think my dad is an idiot would be an idiot. An idiot's point of view is not worth considering. But he becomes simply warriorlike when something threatens his family or our happiness. I remember at our old house in Lewes when he woke up in the middle of the night and fired a live round out of the musket at two burglars who were creeping through the front yard to the house and then chased them round into the preserve and back along the beach with two Queen Anne black-powder pistols. One got away and one ended up in the pool, where he held him till the police came. And he pressed charges for 'trespass with criminal intent.' When I was in 5th grade the teacher assigned a paper on heroes and I wrote about Jesus, quoting all these miracles and unconditional love and the teacher said 'That's not what I had in mind' --and made me write another paper. Mother (our new stepmother then) marched in to school and insisted this was prejudicial and unfair and when the school administrators refused to take a 20-year-old stepmother seriously Daddy went in and read them a riot act. After all Mother had legally adopted us-- we were her children by then too. The result was that Mother dared the school to let her withdraw us and teach us at home, and when the school again suggested she was not capable of that, Daddy marched in and signed us out in one afternoon. We then were taught at home (by Mother) till we went off to England three years ago now.

The thing about my daddy is that when he says he's going to do something about it, he does-- and if you don't believe he will, you should watch him whilst he does it.

And of course I have seen him throw a hammer or a hatchet and over-rev the yard tractor and utter a few choice words and rant on about some awful politician. He was trying to hit a particularly nasty raccoon once at the house at Delaware and out of frustration fired the musket off at a tree, and the ball snapped the limb off about 15 feet off the ground which then landed on the fence and about 10 feet of it had to be replaced. And of course this made him madder-- I won't say what happened then (although the raccoon went on to live a long happy life, probably snickering every time he came back to the vegetable garden).

But at least once his frustration was exciting, even fun. This past summer we were out in the ski boat, just Daddy, Jessy and I, on Barnegat Bay. Daddy was taking us over to Tuckerton for lunch at Stewart's Root Beer stand. We were both in bikinis and Daddy was in some wild multicoloured shirt like something from the 50s. I was sitting in front and Jessy was half-lying across the back seat, right in front of the motor that made it hard to really hold any kind of conversation. I know it looked like my dad was some super-cool older guy with two cute chicks in swimsuits with him-- this is one thing we like to lend him and he's always happy to hang out with us like this. Anyway we were in the middle of the channel about halfway there, doing, I would say, about 35, when some fishermen in a 19-ft Whaler kind of pulled up along side. They only had us by about 5 MPH or so and it was not a big deal-- not every other boat out there has to be in a race, you know. But we were closing on a marker and the guy in the other boat didn't know that passing on the right, approaching a marker, means he has to either get in well ahead of us or go round behind us ('duck' us as it's called in sailboat racing). This guy figured he was important enough to cut in close and show us who really owns the bay.

Well, this set off Daddy, because of the principle of the thing. The Whaler cut in, much too close for comfort, about 20 yards at 35 MPH. Daddy snarled. I heard it. 'Idiot,' he said, and then pushed down the throttle. On the Sidewinder he had moved the front seats closer together and the throttle is actually on the left of the driving seat, down near the floor, so I could see it. He put it right down with his knuckles on the carpet. The big Buick engine roared up, the bow lifted, and Daddy swung it out to the left to pass him-- in the proper side of course.

The guys in the Whaler cheered, like they were happy to have a race. At once the guy driving it cut over in front of us-- where they should have been if they had been alone in the channel, but if someone is overtaking you the rule is that you hold course and speed-- not move over in front of him and speed up. So, it was a race.

The Whaler had a new outboard on it, and it was fast, but nothing beats the ski boat. We were up to 55 in about 5 seconds. I held on. Jessy squealed back there. The Whaler was no longer holding with us, but of course Daddy wouldn't let it stand with just a victory in name only. We were still accelerating-- 60, 65. Trimmed out flat, we were doing about 72 by the time he lifted the throttle a little. It was pretty scary up till then, but finally I laughed. I knew what he was doing. Of course we were in the proper lane of channel traffic and still obeying all the rules-- out in the middle of the Bay there are theoretically no speed limits. Daddy held it over 60 all the way in to the Tuckerton turnoff. Finally when we were idling up the long meandering back channel to Stewart's he said, not too loudly (because from a motorboat everyone else can hear everything), 'Sorry. I just got mad at him.'

We both giggled. 'We know,' I said.

'I just figured he kind of deserved that,' Daddy said.

Jessy leaned forward then, kneeling on the floor behind the two front seats. 'Can you get mad again like that on the way home, Daddy?'

I don't think any root-beer floats Stewart's could have had could have made that afternoon any better than that.

...

The plunge that refreshes

Wednesday 23 September

I wore a nice dress today to school. It's one of my London dresses that I got this summer. It's just a dress, you know, in cotton/rayon with short sleeves and soft skirts falling to just at my fingertips, which is what is called 'a good length' --you know, not too short and not too long. I didn't wear a slip under it (it's lined) and so it felt very cool on such a hot day. Of course going up stairs I kept to the wall side. I usually do in a skirt or dress anyway. This is one benefit of when women wore floor-length skirts-- like my Colonial outfit for reenactments or the ice-cream shop, and you all know what I have said about when I wear that one.

Anyway I got many nice compliments. I will wear an actual dress maybe three days of a school year. More often I wear a skirt, you know. Of about 450 girls in this school, on any given day maybe 40 of them will be wearing skirts, and less than 4 of them will be wearing dresses. The rest wear jeans or trainers (US: 'sweatpants'). I try to get a little dressed-up at least once a week, often twice, but with having PE second period it's awkward, you know. Today girls in the cabana (US: 'locker room') had nice things to say about the dress. The colour is not me at all-- a deep, violet-indigo that's almost sensually suggestive. [giggle] I really do love it, even if I'd rather not be known that way... and I was pretty pleased with the attention if I absolutely must admit that.

Then, of course, it was hot today... so you know what that means. I drove us to school and we were to bring Josie home with us. She and Jessy were making up cute little dares all the way home for when we got there-- like, 'I dare you to jump in backwards.' --or, 'I dare you to jump in with your clothes on.' --till finally I said, 'I'll race you both to the pool.'

Jessy giggled. 'Oo, don't dare me to beat you, because I'll get in like this.'

Josie teased her. 'Surrrrre you will!'

At the house I got out of the car and then took my time, since I had to lock up the car, get my school stuff, and prancing up to the front door, and both of them were impatient. But it was only to make sure we all started at the same time, you know. 'Last one into the pool is a slug,' I said, and suddenly we had dropt all our stuff on the floor and were desperately peeling off clothes on the way out to the French windows.

I was actually able to leave the dress draped carefully over a chair and kicked off the shoes before Jessy got out of her jeans. So I wasn't last! Josie was first, dashing straight into the pool and landing mid-stride in the water. We laughed ourselves silly-- she looked like a cartoon scene. Jessy was struggling with the back of her bra when I dove in, leaving my arms and legs a little too wide apart just to savour the sensation of immersing myself so immediately. That pool felt great.

Of course being so close to the ocean (yes, about 40 yards from the back-bay channel) our pool is always a little brackish. Daddy says you just have to give up on this one. A little saline doesn't hurt anything and in fact he backs off a little on the chlorine unless it's really hot and sunny, when the salt content attracts bacteria. Today it was just about right-- and we would not have complained anyway.

Mother and J.J. got home with Lisa, who came out straight away. 'How did I know you guys would be in there!' she teased, standing beside the pool and stripping off. We all giggled at her-- she loves being the centre of attention, especially our attention. In some ways she is like an honourary teenager!

Then Mother came out with J.J. and put him in his water-wings. Last summer Jessy and I taught Lisa to swim the length of the 12-1/2-metre pool and now, 6 years old, she will do laps on her own. J.J. is 3 and of course less reliable in the water, but we were all happy to push him round in the inflatable thing. He had a good time and did not complain that all three of his sisters, and their friend, were all naked. Of course he never is-- he thinks it's for girls only, which, for now, is fine with us.

Mother lay on a chaise in her shorts and sleeveless top and read in Angela's Ashes, which was one of Jessy's summer-reading selections. As part of our rowdy games in the pool we all got out at one time or another and I ended up lying on a cushion on the terrace for what may have been up to half an hour straight. We all played with Lisa and J.J. till well after tea, when Jessy and Josie went up to her room, to FaceBook to their hearts' content, no doubt. As of right now they are lying on their stomachs and elbows side-by-side on Jessy's bed with two laptops in front of them and the fingers clicking away... almost as fast as mine are right now.

I wish it could always be like this... but a front is expected this week and then we will have autumn. [sigh]

...

An appointment for pleasure

Tuesday 15 September

We've all heard the expression 'self pleasure' and we all know what it means. What I don't understand is why it's such a terrible thing to admit. Oh, sure, I don't think we should reveal all the details. There is such a thing as having dignity and good taste. But I'm sure most of us have done it, to some degree, and so I don't see why it's such a big deal to admit it when it's appropriate to admit it.

There are exceptions of course. I knew two of them at HOH. One was a very sweet, very friendly girl in Jessy's class. She was a good Christian and kind of shy, and once in a casual conversation when someone said 'Oh everyone does it' she got very red and admitted that she didn't. We all immediately felt very bad about having assumed that and apologised to her, and one girl in the group actually suggested that she didn't have to try doing it just because everyone else seemed to have done it, and I really do not think she has done it since either-- which for her would be a good thing. There really is no point in converting someone when it's not something that 's so necessary to life, you know.

The other girl was a funny, outgoing sort of person, in the class below Jessy's-- so at the time this would have been like 8th grade. She carried a certain notoriety round the school because in her ethics class she had delivered a paper on masturbation-- its definition, reasons for and against, religious and cultural aspects, plenty of Wikipedia sources, and her own opinion (that is, experiences) included. Fortunately this was an all-girls' school. The other girls in the class were all either aghast or else all in giggles. The teacher was not amused and our friend was sentenced to one-on-one counselling during seventh period once a week till the end of the school year. She was NOT asked to leave the school however and is still there (in what the US would call 10th grade), but she probably keeps her intimate opinions more to herself these days.

Then, of course, there are the rest of us. As sad as we were to leave HOH, Jessy and I have acclimated ourselves pretty well to a big regional high school in the eastern US. There are things that are done and not done here, just as in an independent girls' school in England. For example, you don't mention masturbation in mixed company. You don't say the word 'orgasm' in a classroom. And, apparently, you use the word 'pleasure' as a verb. (You won't see me doing that one... ever.)

Jessy would clear of her time on Monday night and on the way home from school (in the Regal-- I drove) she admitted she had been feeling 'rammier' than usual recently. ('Rammy' is our stepmother's word for it-- apparently it's Australian for 'horny'.) 'I don't why,' she said, 'but I just can't wait for this to be over.'

'Are you going to celebrate?' I teased her.

'Oh, you'd better believe I am.'

I got a little red then. But I knew what she meant and could well imagine her 'celebrating' on her own.

'Don't you ever get like this?' she asked me.

Now we do talk about absolutely everything. Aside from a few mild fantasies and whatever I choose to chat about online, I don't keep anything from my sister-- and even those things, if she were to ask about them, I would tell her. She is my best friend and, in a way, my soulmate-- we know each other better than anyone else knows either of us. So I can admit anything to her. 'Sometimes,' I told her.

She thought. 'We should plan something, then,' she said.

'Plan something?'

'Like, when we get home tomorrow. What we can do about it.'

I was ready to laugh. 'What,' I said, 'we're going to make a date to indulge ourselves?'

'Yes!' she said excitedly, and turned half sideways in the car. 'Can we? Come on, Janine-- it'll be fun.'

I made a face. 'So, we're going to plan to come home from school tomorrow, strip off, and--'

'Yes!' she said. 'I thought we could take our chaises out back somewhere nice and just... have fun.'

'Um... you do mean you would do it and I would do it, right?'

She made a face then. 'Ew. Of course. I mean-- ew.'

I laughed. 'All right,' I said. 'Well-- I suppose we could do something like that.'

'Good!' she said, and turned back round in the seat and shifted impatiently.

All day today she was a little too eager for it. We met eyes once at lunch and then she gave her head a pretty toss and blurted out, just as though it were apropos of nothing, 'Oh, I can't wait to get home today!' Other people looked at her and, of course, thought nothing about this. I knew exactly what she meant, and I blushed.

On the ride home (I drove again-- there was no way I would let Roger drive us today) she was practically bouncing in the seat. She kept coming up with cute little details-- where she wanted to put her chaise, how far from the house it should be, what she would wear, and then take off, you know. I laughed at her, but she didn't seem to care.

The day was stupendously beautiful, warm, sunny, with fair breezes and no clouds. It was ideal sunning weather. Tuesdays Mother goes to take Lisa to ballet practice and then she and J.J. sit and wait for her, so they are never home before 4.00. Daddy was working at the studio in Delaware, as he often does in the middle of the week. As I pulled up in front of the house Jessy raced up the front steps, discarding her clothes as she went through the foyer. I followed her purse, skirt, shirt, tanktop, and bra to the back doors. Out on the terrace she was already dragging a chaise out towards the garden gate.

'Come on!' she cheered, and stopped at the top of the steps to wait for me.

I laughed. 'Are you serious?'

She caught her breath and stood still for a moment. 'Janine, I have been waiting for this for like eight days.'

I laughed again. 'So? It's been longer for me.' My period is almost always a few days before hers, you know.

She smirked at me, her hands on her hips. 'Well, you're not as rammy as I am right now.'

I smirked back, from thirty feet away. 'Who says I'm not?'

She giggled. 'Really?' When I just shrugged at her she squealed. 'Then come on!' And she picked up the chaise and, in her low-heeled black pumps, her multicoloured stockings, and her bright red panties she carried the chair down the steps to the lawn.

To tease her I took my time, gathering a pitcher of cold tea with ice and two glasses on a tray and then leaving it on the side table of the back parlour as I got out of my things. Like her I kept on my stockings and panties and shoes. Then I stepped out back with the tray.

Jessy was just taking the other chaise over to the steps. 'Oo, good,' she said, of the tray, and I followed her down and out the gate. Out on the side lawn she arranged both chaises about five feet apart in bright sun along the outside of the garden wall, not over by the trees where we usually sit but where no one would see us from Lisa's window, the back of the house, nor even from the gate without stepping out. The tall marsh grass just beyond our shoulders screened us from the bay and the boaters (mostly fishermen) out there. Even as I settled into my chaise a pair of jetskis zinged by. They would not see us here in (almost) our altogether.

'Mmmm,' Jessy sighed loudly, exaggerating her comfort. 'This is lovely.'

I poured out and then set the tea tray on the grass between our chaises. For a long while we just lay there soaking up the sun. Neither of us had put on tanning lotion-- we are both so well tanned by now that an hour or so in the sun won't make much difference either positively or negatively.

'I wish we could do this all morning,' she said.

'But we've done that.'

We were both lying there with our eyes closed, sighing again and again. 'Mmmm, I know,' she said. 'I just love summer I guess.'

I smiled. 'I do too,' I said.

She started first, just caressing herself. I heard her sighing in little whimpers and would not have to open my eyes. I began then too. She was right-- it was a lovely opportunity to savour such sensations and neither of us would rush.

I won't give all the details except to say this. Once I read a romantic little novel, a long time ago now, where the author referred to the way the girl knew just when to lift her bottom to have her panties taken off. At the time I did not get it-- I had imagined they were standing up kissing and it seemed like lifting your bottom a little then would make it harder for someone else to push off your panties. I hadn't realised what the author had meant till I had begun exploring myself in my own bed, and I can say that after a certain point, peeling down your own panties has got to be the most erotically-stimulating thing in the world. For obvious reasons it's a threshold that, once it's crossed, you haven't got anything else stopping you, and knowing that makes all the difference in the world.

I imagine that for two people making love in bed it's the same kind of threshold... though I can't speak from experience on that one.

I do not know which of us arrived first, for we were both pretty well into ourselves by the time I did. Jessy isn't afraid to make noise, if it's only a natural reaction-- I tend to be a little more guarded. As I have written before, she also doesn't mind watching me or even encouraging me, and I find that a little tacky and embarrassing sometimes. I have seen her do herself, but it's not as though I have been watching. She will do herself if I'm in the room and think nothing of it, so it's a little hard to overlook sometimes. I tend to at least begin on my own, quietly, though as I have written also she has come in and discovered me like that and then stayed to watch me go on. I really have learnt to not mind that so much. She is only my sister, and she loves me. It's only self-pleasure. And I'm sure most of us have done it, to some degree, and so I don't see why it's such a big deal to admit it.

...

No dates on Saturday night

Saturday 12 September 2009

The rain was so bad last night that several of the girls did not want to drove over in it, so we postponed our meeting till tonight. It really was laughable-- I suggested that Jessy just IM everyone and ask if Saturday was all right, and not one of us-- NOT ONE-- had a date tonight. Ha-ha! The good girls' club is not just a facade then! Well-- it is early in the year and the only one who is actually dating-- Anna-- was left home alone because her boyfriend was at work. So with Mother's blessing we gathered down stairs here at the castle.

Mother made snacks and so on, like she would have if we had been in 5th grade. We called the meeting to order and set the dates for some events-- our bikini car wash is next week and the Hey Monday concert is October 19th. We will decide on the exact nature of the Thanksgiving giveaway and the Christmas giveaway at the next meeting (in 2 weeks at Rita's). At about 8.30 we adjourned and ate snacks-- cheese fries (low-fat cheese), celery and tomatoes, pizza niblets and, of course, brownies, and watched the stupid Disney princess movie with stupid Selena Gomez till it was over. Two of us went home and then we were seven, plus, Daddy and Mother, playing Apples to Apples round the big game table. It got really silly after a while-- Jessy was nearly boorish with her constant silliness, which is surprising since she is in the middle of her time, you know. Of course Josie and Anna and pretty much everyone else-- even Mother-- was contributing to the silliness too and everyone was sore in the stomach from laughing. We always have a rollicking time playing this game and playing with nine people is by far a record for us.

It is now after midnight and I have been typing all this for too long. I am sleepy and my fingers ache. And I have church in the morning.

...

Windows and the soul

Tuesday 1 September 2009

We have beautiful windows in this house. Daddy, the architectural purist, got them from a place that does traditional-house restorations. They are true early-1700s-style, with the correct flat 1-inch-wide mullions. They are not 'double-hung'-- only the bottom sash slides up. They are single-glazed (one piece of glass per pane), not double, so we rely on real inside shutters for added insulation against the cold (and for security). All the panes are the same size-- in the Colonial period the carpenters orded glass panes from England and made the windows to fit them. And they do not have regular full-sized screens.

All three of our houses, the one in New Jersey, the one in Delaware, and Terncote here, have the same kind of windows. When he was building the beach house in New Jersey, which was the first one, Daddy devised a system by which the screen only covers the bottom sash and the sash slides down outside it. The sash has pins that you slide into the frame to lock the window in place. The screen has pins you can slide back to remove it. I usually leave my windows locked up at the first notch (about 12 inches). My room is up stairs so no one can get in and there's just enough of the sea air to make the room very pleasant day and night.

It was very late when I went to bed (actually early this morning-- I won't say what hour!). I had left the door to the side gallery open as usual and the windows at the first notch, and the room was cool but not chilly. At about 6.00 am I found myself incomprehensibly awake. The dawn sunlight beamed in from above the ocean in a brilliant white light. Outside, birds were chirping. Trees in the side yards hissed in the breeze. The bay lapped patiently at the bulkhead. Far out across the channel and the island, the surf along the beach was the incessant white noise that is a background to everything you hear here. And I lay on my back in the bed, sleepy but alert, my legs apart under the sheet draped lightly over my naked body. I was intensely comfortable.

The inevitable came over me and I soon found myself massaging gently, with the sheet pushed down past where my hand needed to be. It got very powerful very fast and soon I was pushing harder and harder and getting anxious. I whined a few times-- I had not thought I could have been too loud till I realised Jessy was looking in from the door. Seeing me so engaged she whispered, 'Are you all right?'

I only murmurred impatiently, still going.

She nodded and tiptoed into the room, looking round for a moment. I usually sleep on my back with the empty pillow to my left, and she sat there on the edge of the bed and kind of watched me go on. Oh, she knows what I look like doing this, especially what my hand was doing. She looked down on my face with a sweet expression half of sympathy and half of devotion, the kind of devotion only a sister can have. I went on, holding my left arm up over my head, holding back my hair I guess, and wriggled a little to give my other hand more room. I think I whined again-- it was so slow in coming!

'Do you want me to help you?' she whispered, looking down into my eyes.

That gave me a start. 'Help me?' What did she mean?

She nodded and reached up and took my free hand, pressing it tenderly between her palms. 'Just relax. You're doing fine.' And she smiled a little.

I nodded, nearly breathless, and slowed down just a little. That did help. I had been too impatient.

'There, there,' she said, squeezing my hand.

'Oh, Jessy....' I sighed very deeply, relaxing, and it came.

She held me for the whole thing, till I was done trying and had no strength left to fight back the aftermath. When I had given it over she turned round and looked about the room, at the windows standing open, at the morning sun streaming in, at my pretty light-blue sheets pushed down till they covered my thighs and no higher, and at my hand still in place, my palm covering myself as though I were trying to be modest. And she looked back down at me and smiled. 'If you need for me to bring you anything, I will.'

I smiled up at her with a happy sigh. 'No. You don't have to. I'm fine.'

She leaned down and kissed my forehead, patted my hand and then let go, turning on her bare bottom and getting to her feet. 'I'll bring this closed, just a little, then... if you want.'

I nodded. 'Thank you, sweetie.' We met eyes then. 'I love you.'

She responded to that immediately. 'I love you too.' And then she tiptoed out, like an angel, as silently as she had come in, leaving me grateful for my afterglow.

...

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.

...