What is in a name?

March 04, 2010

After shortly arriving in England, being me, I would set off in random directions to do explorations. I have passed through and seen many wonderful sights. I have passed through towns and cities which I can say, I sometimes wonder about who actually decided it would be a good thing to give them the names they enjoy. True, where I grew up many towns had strange names. Most were named after Native American names for places or people. You can always tell people from southern states when they couldn't pronounce Nisswa (Niss-wha') got confused by Pequot (Pee-quot) Lakes or heaven forbid actually found the town of Nimrod on a map. People from Nimrod by the way are either fiercely proud or deny all knowledge of their origin in this town. England though seems to take this hilarity to new levels with towns such as Botley, Godalming and Dorking. A toss up, would you rather be a Nimrod or simply a Dork?
One person at work told me I should take a trip to see the castle further up along the coast going east. Confident in my ability to remember items and figuring it could not be that difficult to find, I set off the next day to find this example of British engineering and posterity.
Arriving at the ticket office of the train station, I calmly walked up and said, "I want to go to, oh crap it starts with Ar something."
The ticket seller replied, "Do you mean Angmering?"
"Yep, that sounds about right."
Paying for the ticket, the gentleman even tells me which platform and when the train would arrive. Traveling on the Southern line along part of the south coast of England changing at Barnham. Switching to the connecting train, I watch the rolling English country side and soon, a large castle rises up on a distant hill growing nearer. It looks to be surrounded by a small town and I can see a good sized church nestled with the castle. With my excitement growing, I watched as it went by on the left side of the train. However, the next stop was Angmering, so I figured I couldn't be that far off from my journey of exploration. Leaving at Angmering station, I calmly follow the signs for the town center. Walking for approximately twenty minutes, I reach the city center. I must honestly say, there is a quiet quaint village with a whole lot of nothing there.
It is at this point I see a sign pointing further up the road with a small picture of a castle. Following the sign up the hill thinking the trees and hill must really be blocking my view, I set off again in search of the castle. About a mile later, at a t-intersection in the road, I find a road sign. It is only five miles to Arundel which is of course where the first sign was directing road traffic to the castle. Deciding it was a little beyond my walk capacity for the day, I trudged slowly back down into Angmering vowing to make it to Arundel on my next day off.
When I returned to work the next day, a few people asked me how my trip to Arundel was. I calmly replied, "Oh, I didn't go. I just got on a train and picked a station and then got off and went for a walk." Well, I can say it is at least partially true. Besides, everybody was amazed.
I would make it to Arundel a week or two later enjoying myself greatly. It is only about a ten minute walk at most from the Arundel train station.
On a final note, if you ever do find yourself in Angmering, there is one of the best fish and chip shops in the town center. Maybe I should have claimed my residence in Dorking. . .

Arundel Castle

Obviously from Arundel Train Station

Carved Wooden bowl & Love Spoons

February 24, 2010

Few of the Welsh Love Spoons centered on plate.

My Own Hand Carved Wooden Plate.
Edelweiss & vine pattern with bead molding from Cedar.
No power tools used or allowed. :)

Love Spoons

Selection of my love spoons I have carved which are hanging around our apartment. All by hand, no power tools used.
Irony here, American carved Welsh Love Spoons in central England

Top : Bass Wood 5in tall 3in wide 1/4in deep

Bottom: Pine 7in tall, 1.5in wide, 1in deep

Top: Bass Wood 5in tall, 3in wide, 1/4in deep

Bottom: Hand Harvested British Beech 6in tall, 1.5in wide 1/4in deep

Bummble-Bee Holiday Travel

Everyone dreads the Christmas holiday period whether they admit it or not. Irrespective of the family members who you are attempting to be nice to in the spirit of the time of year. It may grate when you suddenly find yourself loosen your belt or pants again just when you thought the Thanksgiving bonanza had almost worn off of its unintended parts of your body. No, it seems the worst part to the holiday season is the travel involved. It matters little if you are the traveler or if you are waiting for the person who is traveling, events always seem to cast a dim glow upon the entire proceedings.
Take the example of two travelers from Reading who happen to be visiting the wife's family in say a contry in Eastern Europe. I will not name the country, simply refering to it by a false name of P and say perhaps the city may be W being their final destination.
The flight is destined to leave Heathrow early in the morning. Departure is around ten am. Minor problem, a snow storm arrives the night before and yes, as I have stated before, snow cripples England. Leaving their small apartment a.k.a. "flat" at four o clock in the morning to try to catch the four forty five bus to make sure they can make it, our intrepid travlers drag their fifty pound suitcases through four inches of snow about one mile. Let me make a minor correction, the husband drags the suitcases through the snow, slush and water because the English can't figure ot how to clean off their sidewalks, but why bother complaining.
After being told by the bus company the first bus went out, but they wouldn't know if they were sending out another until the first made it to Heathrow and reported, the intrepid travlers were told they should take the train as it was most likely the best way to get there. Inner shudder of fear and distrust passes through the husband upon being told this. Yes the same trains who can't get traction becase of leaves. Yes the same trains who get cancelled because of a dusting of snow or a hint of cold air. Yet, on this occasion, I must commend them, they actually got our train through. I feel sorry for the follow on passengers as I already saw the next few trains were being cancelled as we boarded ours. I, of course did not mention this to my other half. Crazy, not stupid.
Going through check in, one of our boarding passes refused to be printed. It seems there was an error and we would have to stop when we hit our airport change. Oh, yes from London we went to Prague then onto W flying the Czech national airline. No problem, we got our flight landed in Prague and went to check in our outstanding boarding pass. It seems however our seats were no longer together. Her seat was 6c while my seat was 9B. Asking the nice lady if it was possible to switch seats, she hit a few buttons on her computer and said, "No, I am sorry, bt the plane is full." Ok, we'll just ask someone to switch with us.
Arriving at the departure gate, there seems to only be about twenty people milling about. A little while later, they call to begin the boarding. Twenty people move into the line and one person looks out the window to see. . . . . No plane!!!!!!!! Asking my wife, "Did the Polish oops I mean P government upset the Czech airlines or something?" She laughs. Trooping down the boarding ramps from the first floor to the ground floor, we are calmly herding in a waiting airport bus.
At this point, I again count heads and it seem there is only twenty people in the bus as it pulls away from the gate. "Are you sure your government didn't upset the Czechs somehow?" She laughs. At this point the bus seems to be driving across the country giving us a full tour of the runway and airport and runway and hey I have seen this place before. Seeing a small passenger jet, I point it out to my wife, porobably that one. Nope, we continue our scenic jaunt. Past the midsize turbo props. "Seriously, did your government?" She shoots me a dirty look. We continue to drive.
The bus then makes a hard left turn. Why, at this point we are making a hard turn as we are near the ass end of nowhere on a airport runway, I can not fathom. Where we pull up to a small turbo prop aircraft being loaded by one baggage handler. "I just saw our suitcases." To which my wife replied, "You are joking!?" This should not be construed as a question and you should be under no illusion as to you should answer. The baggage handler finishes loading the bags including all carry on luggage bigger than a laptop, the pilot rolls down the window and is handed a small piece of paper. I am hoping at this point it is not the instructions to a) how to drive it or b) how to get there. Also at this point, a laugh escapes with the thought about the P government and upsetting the Czechs. Didn't ask. Crazy not stupid remember? We calmly board the plane to be welcome aboard by the single stewardess and the two pilots. They can turn around from the cockpit and talk to the people in the front row if the stewardess hasn't deployed her chair.
We rearrange our seats with some poor understanding soul and the bummble bee takes us into the air and on our way to W. You know you are flying slow and low when there is no talk about the masks dropping from the ceiling for pressure loss and the brace position for a crash is don't worry about it. Announcements from the captain can't be heard over the engines. It is a Saab by the way with ashtrays in the arm rests. Fun to play with when you are a kid annoying your parents, but worrying when I can barely remember when they stopped putting them in airplanes. Your butt and body get a free complimentary upgrade vibration massage though and a selection of water, three juices and mini cans of coke. Oh, the life of luxury.
The pilot had a sense of humor though. Everytime he made an announcement involving our one stewardess, he referred to the "entire cabin crew." Even the stewardess laughed.
We eventually landed in W. tired and well shaken.
It was only a few days until the traditional Christmas would exact its toll. Walking away from the bummble bee plane, "Yep, your governement must have really upset the Czechs." Ok, maybe a little bit stupid, definitely crazy.

Windsor Castle Fire

February 19, 2010

Sitting in my bar today, I came upon one of my regular customers telling a story about how she was partially to blame for the fire which wrecked a large chunk of Windsor Castle. Being the touristy type of person I am, I have actually visited the spot where the fire started in the castle. There is a small plaque in the room in the now rebuilt part of Windsor.
Little Sylvia as we call her is sitting down and telling her story of ow she was one of a few seamstresses who actually worked for the Royals and was in charge of making the set of silk curtains which were to hang in the small chapel. These beasts were twenty-eight feet tall and all hand sown. Sylvia explains how not a stitch can be seen and how they had to join four tables together. "You simply couldn't have this beautiful silk dragging on the floor now could we?" The silk was sown onto the wooden pieces so the curtains would hang correctly. The gold trimmings were measured every stitch they put in so as not to be off the slightest bit. Sylvia explains all of this with a sense of humor of how much work she and her team put into the curtains. Made simply because the Queen wanted to be able to close the Chapel off when she entertained guests as they walked from the Dining Room down to the receiving room and nobody had thought to put a door there.
After the fire, Sylvia asked one of the Royals if he would tell her what exactly happened.
The Royal replied, "We should throw you in the dungeon as it was your curtains which caused the fire."
In truth, a workman had left a set of high powered lights on in the room. The window had been left open because of it being such a nice day. A breeze or a gust of wind blew Sylvia's curtains onto the lights where they caught fire.
Two years ago, Sylvia was invited to attend a ceremony in honor of one of the service medals she had earned. Taking place not at the Castle, but in the large church, Sylvia was seated next to Lady A's lady in waiting. Sylvia, being Sylvia was curious as to what color the Queen would be wearing for the day. Sylvia explains it as being a womanly thing to do. Try to catch a peek of what the Queen is wearing. The lady in waiting took Sylvia behind the scenes to catch a glance. The Queen was apparently talking to three gentlemen when she caught a glance of Sylvia. Abandoning the gentlemen, the Queen walked over to Sylvia and talked to her for a moment. Sylvia said, "She has a great memory. She told me it was a shame about the curtains, as they were the most beautiful curtains she had seen." Sylvia was pleased beyond measure.
"I left working for the Royals when I was sixty-six years old."
Sitting and listening to the story, it reminds you of how something so small and seemingly forgotten can cause so much joy and even anguish to the people involved. The little stories found most amusing also seem to crop up at the funniest places and times.
Sylvia unfortunately had to give up dancing about two years ago when her partner dropped her during a move. She damaged her hip and broke her wrist. She still likes her ice cream after lunch when she comes by and flirts with the guys. Did I happen to mention Sylvia will be celebrating her ninety-ninth birthday this year.

Frying pans and melting pots

February 11, 2010

I am struck by the difference between two seemingly close cultures. One of course being at least in the main deriving from the other. In less than two hundred and fifty years these cultures seem to have drifted farther apart than I am sure any of our fore fathers would have guessed. Yes, I realize we were forcibly seperated by a war and then another about thirty years later. However, you might think we would retain some semblence of each other.
No, I do not speak to the difference between the US direct representative democracy versus a proportional representation which resides in the UK. I personally like to vote for my candidate, not for the party. Maybe iot is the grassroots feeling I enjoyed of all levels of American political process for better or worse.
I will only broadly hint at my running battle with English versus American language. How do you pronounce queen as queen and quay as key? Wait, why do you add extra bits to aluminum with your spelling and pronunciation? Why is a vacation a holiday and when did a cell phone become a mobile phone? Finally, if trousers are pants, pants are underwear and ladies underwear are knickers, why do you refer to "pants" and "knickers" as underwear? These minor irritations prove amusing to me. Especially when standing in front of a large group of English asking two guys if they have any black pants to work in. Social blunders. . .
One of the striking things which most would not even bother noticing is the idea of society as found in the young. How many Americans know and can recite the Pledge of Allegiance? I would bet most. We are taught about our melting pot culture where everybody is American and supports America. We sing the National Anthem in school from when we are little children. We are taught patriotic songs about our country. I bet if I mention, "This Land is Our Land . . ." again most of us Americans will start humming along. Heck, I can even fold the American Flag properly thanks to Mr. Norlin my third grade teacher.
Here, it seems they lack the certainty of identity. While we consider ourselves a melting pot where once you are there you are American, here it is a selection of which country you are from. I state proudly, I am an American from Minnesota of German descent as do most others I know with variations. Here I find most will claim they are Pakistani, Indian even Scottish and Welsh before even thinking of themselves as English or British. They speak no pledge to a common flag. They rarely sing the national anthem at school. They insulate themselves in a nanny culture to protect from offending each other and become isolated pockets.
Maybe one of the main reasons they have a hard time understanding us is we admit our country is not perfect, but we try hard to keep the "melting pot" alive in our schools and make it better. Here, it is more like eggs in a hot frying pan. No chance to get together before becoming set in an isolated shape.

The art of chugger avoidance

February 09, 2010

Walking down the high street in the pedestrian zone of most any English town, you will quickly discover the people who have lived in the town for more than a few months. There are blindingly obvious signs you are an outsider in Reading if you can't avoid the most common norms of walking downtown.
I am not talking about the signal lights crossing into and out of the pedestrian zone that only seem to work every ten or fifteen minutes. Don't worry as this is only a major road used by buses, taxis, delivery vehicles, other automobiles and even the homicidal bike rider intent on mowing down as many walkers as possible. Simply look down the street, judge the distance and calmly walk across the street. You are known as an out of towner if you actually wait for the crossing light to turn green with its accompanying screeching noise before you cross. Well, you might be someone from Warsaw, but you can't ever really explain people from Warsaw.
You will be used to the guy who might be homeless sitting on the corner by the drug store nightly playing his guitar and singing with his gravel rough voice most likely caused by years of hard living. They are the out of towners and normally heavily intoxicated who try to stop and talk to the local "blues" man. He calmly ignores them as we walk by chuckling to ourselves about those silly tourists who try to request songs. He is now doing afternoon shows on the other corner. I think the matinee crowd is not quite as good as he seems to do these infrequently.
No, I can pick out the "others" by their inability to spot and use the natural cover to avoid the English institution of chuggers. Most people would ask, "What is a chugger?" Well, I must confess, I picked the term up from one of the locals.
The term is a cute combination of "charity & muggers." The chuggers are the charity workers who will lie in wait from one end of the high street to the other in groups of five to ten who will attempt to stop random people to explain their causes and solicit card donations conveniently withdrawn monthly from your account. They are very clever, because they can not accept standard donations, but now take your details and credit card or bank card details which as I said "will automatically debit from your account the set amount of only X number of pounds a month. This is less than a couple of cups of coffee."
They see the "fresh meat" coming a mile away. Any eye contact and they will close in. The cry of "Do you have a moment?" echoes across the street. "I am working for . . . . " Now you are trapped and they have you pinned with pictures of something horrible to pile on guilt. Now don't get me wrong, I am American. I tip, I give to charity all the time and I volunteer to help out when I can. Apparently England is proud of the fact it donates so much to charity. It ranks within the top twenty of the EU. Now ask yourself how may countries are in the EU. Not a ringing endorsement. Besides, they get ahead a little because of the strong pound. . .
So those who have been here a little while will walk slightly behind and off to one side of the person in front of them upon seeing the pack of chuggers working the street. If the chugger moves, they will first try and pick off the person in the front. Yes, you will see us old hands using the trees as blocking agents, other walkers and mail boxes as cover and even those homicidal cyclists as screeners for us. If all else fails, a hard turn into one of the shops can spring the trap.
On a Saturday a few weeks ago, I saw chuggers from three children's charities, one for homeless shelters, one for cruelty to animals, one for homes in third world countries, one for affordable housing, one for developing infrastructure in third world countries and one working for the liberation of Palestine. It almost made me feel sorry for the poor Socialists trying to rail against the evils of all capitalism. Almost. . .
So I am now an old hand at these quirks of this town. Just a word of warning. If you have to take a hard turn into one of the stores make sure you choose a correct store to go into and realize they may wait for you. . .