Thursday, December 25, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Ho, Ho, Ho
There are some times when you realize that you really don’t belong in this country, much as you may love it.
Last week we went to something called “Reindeer Night” at a local farm. Olivia’s choir from school was singing, and Wendy had arranged for a ride earlier. Eliot and I decided it would be fun to tag along too.
It was dark and about 35 degrees and raining steadily when Eliot and I set off at 4:15. Our friend Devrin dropped us off at some shops several miles outside Cambridge; we had been instructed to make use of the “park and ride scheme” because parking at the farm itself was limited. We had originally invited Devrin and his kids along with us, but he muttered something about a phone call and headed back to Cambridge. Devrin is a smart guy; I should have been paying better attention.
Confident, however, in the “park and ride scheme” and in the general organizational competence of the English, Eliot and I waved goodbye to Devrin and trudged off into the night. It was dark. And cold. And wet. And muddy. None of the parking attendants had heard anything about a park and ride scheme. They suggested we wait out by the road.
Twenty minutes later, Eliot, who had been chattering merrily away all this time, asked me why we were standing next to a busy road, in the middle of a field, in the rain. This struck me as a remarkably intelligent question. So we trudged back to find the parking attendants. In the interval they had determined that there indeed was a park and ride scheme in operation, though no one knew exactly when it would begin to operate. They advised patience.
Several other parents had straggled in by this time, though none of them, as I think about it now, had a three year old in tow. And they were all wearing wellies. It was about this time that it began to dawn on me that I may have seriously misjudged this particular venture. But this was also about the time (quarter past five, for those of you keeping score at home) that lights appeared in the distance. Things were looking up!
The lights got closer, and the roar of an engine louder. Here, at last, after standing in the rain and the cold and the mud for 45 minutes, was our park and ride scheme. The kind folks from the farm had sent it for us, and it was …. a tractor. Yep. A tractor. Or, to be perfectly accurate, a tractor pulling a hay wagon.
Well, we were going to a farm, after all.
Now, I grew up in a cold-ish part of the world (New Hampshire) and I think of myself as fairly tough. But the chill of an English winter is of a different order. 35 degrees isn’t that cold by the thermometer, but I’d rather have zero in New Hampshire than 35 here. Unlike the raging, good vs. evil spiritual warfare of a New England winter, where you always know whose side you’re on and that light will eventually triumph over darkness if you just hang on long enough, the damp of an English winter sneaks around, insinuating itself like Iago into your thoughts, your attitude, your whole outlook on life. Coleridge said that Iago was an example of “motiveless malignancy,” and that pretty much gets to the heart of a rainy English night in December.
Fifteen minutes later, the hay wagon deposited us at the farm. Eliot and I had now spent a full hour getting to Reindeer Night. And what was Reindeer Night? Well, for three pounds a head you get to walk around in the mud with hundreds of other people, look at a few donkeys—and, well, that’s about it, really. You could spend a couple of extra pounds for some mulled wine in a paper cup. The ubiquitous Santa in his grotto was there, too, but Olivia has I think seen enough old men in grottos f
or one year. Oh—and there were reindeer, too, in a stable. They looked rather the worse for wear, to be honest. Santa must have worked them pretty hard over the last couple of years before retiring to his grotto.
Trying to restore feeling to my feet by stamping and jumping, peering at a bunch of broken down reindeer, slipping and sliding around in the dark, feeling mud and who knows what else slowly seeping through the soles of my shoes, I realized that, to coin a phrase, I’m just not from around here. It’s as if there’s a hidden code, and if you see the words “farm” and “night” and “December” in relative proximity to each other, you immediately think: “leave three-year-olds at home,” “wear wellies,” “bring a torch” “expect a tractor,” and “pretend to have a good time.” Unless, of course, you’re me, in which case that particular neuron didn’t fire, and you bring your three year old out in his sneakers to sit in the rain in an open hay wagon because you thought, in your innocence, that it would be “fun” to see some reindeer. I looked around. No one else had brought a three year old. Everyone else was wearing wellies. And, just to rub it in, they were all pretending to have a good time, too.
Ah: I almost forgot the reason we had gone through all this. Olivia’s choir sang Christmas carols in the Reindeer’s stable. And—but you knew this already—they sounded magnificent.
Last week we went to something called “Reindeer Night” at a local farm. Olivia’s choir from school was singing, and Wendy had arranged for a ride earlier. Eliot and I decided it would be fun to tag along too.
It was dark and about 35 degrees and raining steadily when Eliot and I set off at 4:15. Our friend Devrin dropped us off at some shops several miles outside Cambridge; we had been instructed to make use of the “park and ride scheme” because parking at the farm itself was limited. We had originally invited Devrin and his kids along with us, but he muttered something about a phone call and headed back to Cambridge. Devrin is a smart guy; I should have been paying better attention.
Confident, however, in the “park and ride scheme” and in the general organizational competence of the English, Eliot and I waved goodbye to Devrin and trudged off into the night. It was dark. And cold. And wet. And muddy. None of the parking attendants had heard anything about a park and ride scheme. They suggested we wait out by the road.
Twenty minutes later, Eliot, who had been chattering merrily away all this time, asked me why we were standing next to a busy road, in the middle of a field, in the rain. This struck me as a remarkably intelligent question. So we trudged back to find the parking attendants. In the interval they had determined that there indeed was a park and ride scheme in operation, though no one knew exactly when it would begin to operate. They advised patience.
Several other parents had straggled in by this time, though none of them, as I think about it now, had a three year old in tow. And they were all wearing wellies. It was about this time that it began to dawn on me that I may have seriously misjudged this particular venture. But this was also about the time (quarter past five, for those of you keeping score at home) that lights appeared in the distance. Things were looking up!
The lights got closer, and the roar of an engine louder. Here, at last, after standing in the rain and the cold and the mud for 45 minutes, was our park and ride scheme. The kind folks from the farm had sent it for us, and it was …. a tractor. Yep. A tractor. Or, to be perfectly accurate, a tractor pulling a hay wagon.
Well, we were going to a farm, after all.
Now, I grew up in a cold-ish part of the world (New Hampshire) and I think of myself as fairly tough. But the chill of an English winter is of a different order. 35 degrees isn’t that cold by the thermometer, but I’d rather have zero in New Hampshire than 35 here. Unlike the raging, good vs. evil spiritual warfare of a New England winter, where you always know whose side you’re on and that light will eventually triumph over darkness if you just hang on long enough, the damp of an English winter sneaks around, insinuating itself like Iago into your thoughts, your attitude, your whole outlook on life. Coleridge said that Iago was an example of “motiveless malignancy,” and that pretty much gets to the heart of a rainy English night in December.
Fifteen minutes later, the hay wagon deposited us at the farm. Eliot and I had now spent a full hour getting to Reindeer Night. And what was Reindeer Night? Well, for three pounds a head you get to walk around in the mud with hundreds of other people, look at a few donkeys—and, well, that’s about it, really. You could spend a couple of extra pounds for some mulled wine in a paper cup. The ubiquitous Santa in his grotto was there, too, but Olivia has I think seen enough old men in grottos f
or one year. Oh—and there were reindeer, too, in a stable. They looked rather the worse for wear, to be honest. Santa must have worked them pretty hard over the last couple of years before retiring to his grotto.Trying to restore feeling to my feet by stamping and jumping, peering at a bunch of broken down reindeer, slipping and sliding around in the dark, feeling mud and who knows what else slowly seeping through the soles of my shoes, I realized that, to coin a phrase, I’m just not from around here. It’s as if there’s a hidden code, and if you see the words “farm” and “night” and “December” in relative proximity to each other, you immediately think: “leave three-year-olds at home,” “wear wellies,” “bring a torch” “expect a tractor,” and “pretend to have a good time.” Unless, of course, you’re me, in which case that particular neuron didn’t fire, and you bring your three year old out in his sneakers to sit in the rain in an open hay wagon because you thought, in your innocence, that it would be “fun” to see some reindeer. I looked around. No one else had brought a three year old. Everyone else was wearing wellies. And, just to rub it in, they were all pretending to have a good time, too.
Ah: I almost forgot the reason we had gone through all this. Olivia’s choir sang Christmas carols in the Reindeer’s stable. And—but you knew this already—they sounded magnificent.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Nativity Pageant At Holy Trinity
This morning Eliot and Olivia participated in the annual Nativity Pageant at the church we attend here in Cambridge. You see Olivia stan
ding outside the church with some of her friends. Olivia was Mary and Eliot was Sheep #1. Both had lines to memorize and said them perfectly. As these things go, the pageant went off fairly well considering there were, at a minimum, 15 three year old sheep.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The Barton School Christmas Fayre
This morning Olivia and I attended her school Christmas Fayre with two of her good friends, Heidi and Morgan. And no, I didn't spell it incorrectly. Based on my first experience, the annual school Christmas Fayre seems to be a Christmas bazaar and school carnival rolled into one. The school's multipurpose room was filled with stalls selling Christmas crafts that the children had made, baked goods and various games you could play for a small fee.
Olivia tried her luck at the "Lucky Lolly"stall (received a unmarked lolly, so no prize), the "Jammy Jar" stall (won a jar full of goodies only a kid would love: plastic monster finger puppet, plastic bear, plastic bendy pencil and a box of smarties - which are like M&Ms and probably made of plastic), and the snowman raffle, where to my amazement she won a stuffed snowman on her first try. The odds were against her so I thought that one would be a safe. At least the snowman wasn't plastic.
She finished the morning off with a visit to Santa in his grotto. There, for a mere 2 pounds, you are allowed behind the tinsel barrier and escorted by an adult elf, through a little maze of what I think are supposed to be snowdrifts, but which really look like piles of boxes covered in white sheets bedecked with candles, to an elderly Santa crouching in a dimly lit corner. I think we both thought the set up a bit odd, so I accompanied her. After a brief visit in which Santa asked her her name and her age, but not where she lived, she received a wrapped gift. It turned out to be a set of plastic craft beads.
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