Shere Delight

Deus ex machina-Shere-ing Time 3

The gods arrived on Thursday morning in the forms of a Phillipina cleaner and an English gardener.   Before Carmelita arrives I always clean house so she won't think I'm a pig, so there was that to do, then young Jack Dew(er) lives up to his name by bounding to the door fresh as a spring day,  (which this should be, but isn't, due to unseasonably cold weather), brimming with all the energy of a 27 year old, his hair a rusty mass of coils in a halo around his head.  "You all right?", he says.  "What do you want me to do today?" Eager to begin.  My aging brain and body flood with relief.  

The cellar contains all the things I jammed into it before the renter moved in to stay for the 3 months I was away.  One clothes rack fell over the other, luggage spills sweaters, shoes, t-shirts I have rummaged through to find something to wear, and it is impossible to clear out anything else until it is all sorted. I have been down there only to find clothes, leaving as soon as possible to avoid sitting down and weeping.

Showing him the mess, I say, "How about sorting the cellar?"  "No worries,"he says.   And that is what he does, sorts the  jumble, moves things to their proper places, neatens everything so I can see what is there. 

We talk about getting boxes into which I can sort what goes and what stays.   I ring Sainsbury, Waitrose, B & Q to see if I can find some free ones, but most places disassemble and recycle theirs right away.I find a store that may have some.  Jack is off in his trusty van like a shot. "No worries", he says.  

Meanwhile, Carmelita tranquilly vacuums, dusts, mops, cleans toilets, and all the things she does to make the house nice and clean, and me cared for.   Jack returns with the only boxes they had available, which look like they might have contained small chain  saws; they are very deep and narrow.  Mmm.  Won't do, Dew.  Carmelita, who has moved her boss' house recently, says, "I have boxes."  Jack and I look at each other.   Her English is not great, or maybe it is her listening skills. 

So we arrange a time for me to pick up the boxes, I arrange with Jack a return date to do more clearing out, and I feel really ready to get on with the rest, energized, satisfied, as I have done it all myself.  No worries.   Hope this lasts the weekend. 

 

Shere-ing Time, 2

Okay, so here's what happened next.  I plunged into the Slough of Despond, paralyzed by fear and sense of loss, extending back to the age of about 6, and thinking that such a small person could not possibly cope with the vastness of moving an entire house, indeed, pretty much an entire life, back into an environment which is a part of that very loss; all the mistakes and errors and stupid decisions I have ever made grabbed hold of my quivering soul.  So what do I do?

Well, I play Solitaire on my iPad, of course; upon awaking in the morning, and when I wake up in the night; in the evening before I go to sleep, and of course at nap time.  I love my bed, the only place where the accusation of undone chores don't confront me, accuse me, wake me from my somnolent state just enough for guilt to weigh me down still  further.

Once on my feet, and even dressed,   I fix a cup of coffee and shuffle papers around in the office.  I walk out to the studio, look at the capless paint tubes, paint rags stiff with dried paint, half-finished canvases and paper leaning against walls and  chairs and the easel, shelves stacked with art books, littered with pencils and brushes and charcoal and pots of dirty paint thinner, and smelling deliciously of turpentine.

  However, rather than rouse me to action, it only adds to my burden of guilt and over-whelm, so I close the door and go back in the house.  At least it's warm in here, and I can wash up a dish or two, or put in a load of laundry, and think I am actually making progress on the tasks before me. 

Meantime, the moving companies I very efficiently contacted about 3 weeks ago to come and make estimates on the removal are calling me and emailing me to know if I have made a decision.  Think of it.  Six more weeks to go and they want a decision.  I haven't even looked at the quotes yet, and how to decide on which one to use is as far away as ever.  It looks like one is about as good as another, and they've all been in business for centuries, have professional packers, work with the best van lines in the states, have good relations with the customs people.  And use superlative wrapping materials.

To top it all, and surely the root cause of all my woe, it is still raining off and on, it is cold, down to freezing at night, and mostly cloudy all day.  That's why I can't get started. 

Fortunately one of my mates knocked on my door at about 6:00 the other night after a hard day at the office.   It was only Tuesday, not a week end night or anything.  She just looked at me and said, "Drink".  What could I do but reach out to the wretched and be there for her.  In the pub. 

Shere-ing Time, 1

It is early morning in late winter, and  cold outside, as it has been for days; elm trees stand denuded of leaves, their  untidy branches and bony twigs scratching at frozen air, while the evergreens stand stolidly, silent giants biding their time, waiting for spring. 

But I am cozy in bed, huddled under a warm duvet and my grandmother's quilt, made 80 years ago, its colors as fresh as the day it was made.   Maybe it was a  winter's day like this one,  in Missouri, where I was born, my mother and grandmother cutting scraps of fabric, chatting, drinking coffee, deciding on colors. Stars made from outgrown pinafores and dresses of mine and my sisters'  lie neatly on pale green cloth.  I recognize the red, white and blue striped one; it was my  pinafore, colors bright so a small child would notice.    

 Familiar objects surround me.  A solid oak chest of drawers stands beside the bed, another faces me from across the room, next to a little marquetry tatting table we bought in France. Curtains with red and blue flowers and birds on a white background frame my view from the lead paneled windows.    A small wooden book case I painted red one summer stands between them.  Although  we have been in this room together for only a few years the room feels like an old friend.

For centuries the thick stone walls of this room  have witnessed the many lives lived in this room, the human dramas of which my own is such a tiny part.   A leather bound bible the size of  my hand is embedded in the plaster of the wall facing me, found hidden in the recesses of the beams, placed there perhaps when it was dangerous to be on the wrong side of God.  Now it is glazed into the fabric of the house and will be there as long as the house stands  

 This house  will survive long after I am gone to watch other lives pass through, and in a few short weeks I will be looking at other walls, new ones which have had no time to mature.    It will be up to me to infuse them with at least some of this lovingly charged space.    I will try to make a beginning. 

It won't be easy to uproot again, to leave this comfortably settled house and village. It seems like the events of time have  worn down all the sharp edges here, whereas in America we are still spiky and hard,  tumultuous teen agers.  I will miss my life in Shere. 

Yesterday, shopping in a nearby village, I walked in the chilly shadow cast by the shops.  Suddenly, there was a gap between buildings, heated by the strengthening sun,warming my face for a moment.  Although I walked back into the cold shadows I knew the sun was there, and I would step out of the shadows and into the sun again. 

 

 

 

 

Claremont, California, Ashland, Oregon, and Peralta, New Mexico

Gray Sandhill cranes, bent to pluck bugs and seeds from the fields, have been gurgling their strange, raucous call since dawn.  They look almost like sheep from a distance with their long necks reaching down, or small, gray emus closer up.  Pale winter fields, fallow at this time of year, stretch all around my sister's hacienda here in New Mexico, where I arrived on New Year's Eve after a 2 hour flight which took 4 and a half.    So I was tired last night, but waking to their wild calls, looking out upon a frosty world outside, was stimulating and refreshing. 

I have been on the move since my arrival in the US.    San Jose at Thanksgiving, Claremont(en.wikipedia.org/Claremont_California) a week later.  Looked at a few homes near my son Matthew's townhouse.  Took a train to San Jose again - an unusual mode of transport in these parts, but comfy, with broad seats, plenty of leg room, an electrical outlet by every seat, and a dining car with white tablecloths and real silverware and real food -then met a friend there with whom I shared a ride up to Ashland, Oregon (www.el.com/to/ashland) to spend Christmas with son David and his children Sage, 5, and Malia, 7.    The passes over the Cascade mountains, past Mount Shasta (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Shasta). to which must be added the adjective "majestic", were snowy, but roads were clear on the day we crossed, and the predicted storms did not arrive. 

I prepared mussels in white whine with "frites", a salad, and sourdough french bread for Christmas Eve supper at David's house, then enjoyed Christmas Day with enthusiastic children. 

Arrived back in Claremont, I bid on the townhouse I had looked at.  It was accepted, so it looks like I'm in the process of buying it. Yikes. 

Now in Peralta (www.loslunasnm.com/city/Peralta-NM), where I will spend 3 weeks sleeping in the same bed!!  Yippee. 

The way to San Jose (and Saratoga and Los Gatos)

Spe

nt Thanksgiving in San Jose with part of the family, including two nieces, a grandniece, a sister, and a grand nephew. It was my first Thanksgiving in the states for many years.   All the traditional dishes made it around the table, like roast turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes, green beans and bacon, cranberry sauce, and a few not so traditional:   raw brussel sprout salad, squash and cranberry salad, and roast ham,  followed by pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, and apple pie.  Delicious on the day, but after two or three days of turkey or ham sandwiches, microwaved sweet potatoes and green beans, and turkey soup, it all seemed inedible.  So it is, until next year.

The weather has been fine, sunny, but with a chill to the air.  This is northern California, near the foothills of the Santa Cruz mountains, and near also to Saratoga and Los Gatos, two communities perched above San Jose.  Once upon a time they were escapes to the hills, mostly woodlands with cabins and farmhouses.  Now,  upscale shops and restaurants  line the main street, frequented by the beneficiaries of Silicon Valley fortunes made in the last 30 years.  

We walked yesterday up the hill to the McMansions overlooking the valley below, these monuments to Silicon Valley success,  and today drove to Saratoga to an art center called Villa Montalvo.  It stands in the midst of a wooded park redolent with the aroma of  the spicy pepper trees, the eucalyptus, bay and madrone native to this area.    Although I lived in Silicon Valley for many years, I had forgotten until today the existence of this Mediterranean style villa here in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains., but never do I forget  the scents of northern California forests, and the feel of cool  air barely warmed by a weak winter sun.

Theater, art galleries, and concerts take place all year long at Villa Montalvo, as well as programs for helping developing artists.  So, see, we are not without culture in the new world, even California. 

This has been a sentimental journey, a home/not-homecoming, the place where my children were born, where I was a university student, then a young mother, then a part of the working world.  I have not lived here for twenty years.    Being here recalls an old self, a person, or should I say persona,  who used to be and is no longer, but still, lingers at the edge of memory like a dream you can't quite recall. 

Tomorrow, I am off to Chapter I, to southern California where I grew up, to confront another old self.  There have been so many chapters since then. 

On the road....

On the road again…..Ramsbury, Wiltshire, 

 

 

Here in Ramsbury, in Wiltshire, the weather is giving me a great send off to my long trip to the land of my birth.  The wind has been howling around the chimney pots all night, rain drumming on the skylights, and now, at nearly noon,it is still wet and windy.  Maisie, the little terrier who lives here, goes to the door and barks, but when I open the door, she changes her mind and retreats to a safe distance from the spattering.  I got some Biltong at the little shop down the road yesterday, and she persistently stares at the bag on the counter, occasionally whispering a little bark.  She’d rather eat than go outside, but is too polite to bark.

I came up here to stay with my grand daughter for a few days while her parents are away.  It is a chance to decompress after the last frenetic days in Shere, preparing my home  to welcome paying guests during my absence.  On Sunday, she and I went to Marlborough – not the cigarette brand, silly – but a very chic town not far from Ramsbury.  When I say chic, I mean the Princess of Cambridge (Kate Middleton, and Pippa, too)  went to school at Marlborough College.  The college also produced the actor James Mason, whom you might remember if you were born before 1950, the poets Louis MacNiece and Siegriend Sassoon, and William Morris, to name but a tiny fraction. http://www.ranker.com/list/notable-marlborough-college-alumni-and-studentshttp://www.ranker.com/list/notable-marlborough-college-alumni-and-students

 The town itself is a shopper’s paradise.  Smart boutiques line the High Street – selling everything from clothes to up-scale household goods and knick-knacks, like Cath Kidston, all amidst ancient architecture.   We were in and out of quite a few shops before the call of the tea room lured us into Polly’s. www.thepolly.com

 Polly’s is exactly what springs to mind – mine anyway – when you say “tea room”.  It is cosy, has friendly helpful staff, smells of freshly baked cake, and serves a  scrumptious high tea, for which it is justly famous.  For cucumber sandwiches to chocolate cake and everything in between, this is worth a trip to England. Almost.  You can also get a full English breakfast all day long, composed of sausage, bacon, baked beans, sautéed mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, eggs any style, and brown, white, or granary toast, You’ve got to be really hungry to tuck one of those away. .  Polly’s has been here since 1912, and it is tempting to imagine James Mason or Siegried Sassoon taking their “tea” here so many years ago. 

Tomorrow, once again, I will leave it all behind and be off to London Heathrow, to wend my way through the heaving masses and board a flight to Raleigh, North Carolina, a town that is considerably younger than this one.