Go Vols?

VOLuminous has posted Phil Fulmer's letter to Tennessee season ticket holders.

I am speechless, or whatever the written equivalent may be.

good speech and a new coat

The presentation today went pretty well, though when I sneaked a peek at the evaluation sheet filled out by my neighbour, I thought she was a little stingy with the points.

I went shopping afterwards and found a delightful overcoat - and two pairs of orange gloves. Unfortunatey, the beautiful gloves at Liberty have spoiled me - they weren't quite right (one was a Texas orange and the other was medium quality suede) and I bought neither pair.

After I came home, I gave made myself a little drink (Jack and Ginger Beer - good), but I think I made it a little strong, so don't expect any insightful blogging today.

Though please do welcome Expat Teacher - to my American Expats in London blogroll.

Granddad blogging: Loot

Last week my grandfather managed to get off the front and become a cook in the army. This week he finds a train and gets some booty.

You asked me how I came to have this German silverware that I have. When the war was drawing to an end the Germans were abandoning trains, aeroplanes, buses, cars and tanks and everything else. And I didn’t have any idea why then, but the simple fact was that they were running out of oil. Their sources of oil had all been cut off. The fields that were in Romania and Bulgaria had been bombed. They couldn’t any more from Russia. Their oil fields, limited that they were had been bombed. They didn’t have any tankers that could bring oil into ‘em and they had plenty of tanks and aeroplanes and trains and that sorta stuff but they were all parked and camoflaged.

I remember walking down the autobahn. And I had never seen an autobahn, we call them Interstates here, and there were aeroplanes parked on the right and left and camoflaged. All up and down the autobahn. They used the autobahns for airstrips for the planes to take off and land on. And they were good, new-looking planes sitting there. I knew we hadn’t been strafed or shot at by planes in a long time, and I didn’t understand why. And I didn’t understand why the tanks weren’t running or anything else.

And somewhere between Munich and Nuremberg, I don’t remember where, I probably have it written down somewhere, but I’ve forgotten, we came upon a great long train. It was sittin’ on a track in some woods, and it was covered up with pine trees and everything else. Camoflaged so it couldn’t be seen at all, and when we came up on it we began poking around in it and decided it wasn’t booby-trapped, so we really began poking around then. I was in the cooking end of the outfit at that time, so I was always interested in finding any food that we possibly could. And rattled around in the dining cars and kitchen all along this train. And there were sets of silver and china and crystal, of real fine stuff, I thought. And it was sterling silver, and it was good china and it was real good crystal. And people were lootin’ it pretty fast.

And we could loot it because... Looting’s the wrong word, confiscating it. We could confiscate it because it had DR on it. Deustche Reich. And it had a swastika on it, and it had the German eagle on it, so it was eligible to be taken if we wanted it. And I took a set of silver. Everything that I could get. Knives and forks and spoons and serving spoons and serving pieces and this, that and the other. A whole lot of it.

I had in mind when I took it that I was gonna send it home. And I got it all and wrapped it up the best I could and put it in a tow sack, and took the tow sack or croker sack some people would call it and throwed it in the back of a trailer that was hooked on to a jeep. And the reason I used this trailer is because it was where I carried the crudest of field kitchen stuff that we used to cook for the people that were in this part of battalion headquarters. And I went to one of the officers and asked him if we would sign to let me send this home, because you couldn’t send German contraband home unless it had an officer’s signature on it. And he said, yeah he would sign for it and let me send it home, but he’d have to have all the teaspoons. He wanted them. I gave 12 I believe, I kept a few, but I kept all the rest of it, and I wrapped it up in sacks and got me some boxes and tied strings and paper stuff around it got him to stamp his OK on it and shipped it to [my wife]. And that’s the story of that.

Note: This silverware was used at big gatherings where he and my grandmother didn't have enough sterling to go around. So often we ate Christmas Eve or Thanksgiving Dinner off Nazi silver. The silver is very good quality, but by this time, the German steelmaking capacity was decreased and that steel that there was, I presume was going to the war effort - so the blades of the knives which were stainless steel have not held up over 50 years of use.

This set of silver is now mine, but my brother and I had a little "dispute" over this. He finally agreed that I could have them so long as I never took them out of the country (for use or donation). One spoon was given to my mother-in-law (by my grandfather) so that's now in Europe. The rest will stay in America.

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Technorati tags: oral history, WWII, history

Performance anxiety

Tomorrow I'm speaking at a conference. It was supposed to be one of those big conferences with the giant lecture room and the podium and the big screen powerpoint and all.

Friday, I spoke to the conference organisers and found out that there are only seventeen delegates. Great, me and my copresenter D prepared a speech for 100. D couldn't quite believe it and asked if maybe it was 70. Well, I was pretty sure I heard her right, but I phoned back to check today - and it wasn't 17 - no it's eighteen. One more person signed up.

Ok. It's tempting not to give my all, but these people paid nearly 400 pounds (about 700 bucks) to hear us speak- us and the other people on the panel.

And frankly I want them to walk away saying hey, this conference sucked but Vol Abroad was good. I learned something.

So even though it's only 18 people, I'm still nervous, and I'm still going to be up late prepping for something lively and informative for a small group.
-________________________________________________________________________

Black Saturday

Apparently, the no-shopping day in Europe was yesterday. Oops, I should have read Mel's post on Black Friday a little more closely. I went shopping yesterday in the heaving morass that is Oxford Street/Regent Street in direct contravention of European anti-consumerism.

My in-laws were in town and they actually like that sort of thing. I understand that when you live in the provinces it can be exciting to shop in the glam hustle and bustle of London, but they live in Edinburgh. They have a Harvey Nick's there for goodness sake, I can't see why in the world they'd want to go to the one here.

We met them for lunch in a cafe not far from the Vol-in-Law's work. The food was passable, but the toilets were amazing. There were nearly life sized murals of nekkid men painted all over. And these paintings were...anatomically correct as well, no well placed drapery in sight. They were men of all color and different amounts of chest hair and circumcision status. In my stall, the tackle was right at eye level and gently lolling onto his thigh. I wanted to warn the Vol-in-Law's slightly doddery aunt as she made her way to the loo, but I just couldn't quite find the right phraseology.

Afterwards, we went our separate ways as I wanted to go to Liberty. I don't know why, as I can't afford a damn thing in there. I tried on a smashing hat made of fluffy lamb - but it was actually strikingly similar to the two I already have and it was £150 - which is nearly $300 in real money. (The Cabela's hat is clearly a better deal) I also saw a beatiful pair of leather gloves in Tennessee orange. They felt like butter, they were so soft, I must presume they were made out of Romanian baby orphan...cows. They were lined with cashmere and fit me like, well, a glove. I wore them for a little bit and they made my existing coat look like the shabby drab second hand overcoat that it is. I really wanted them, but they were £70 (c. $130). I set them down.

We then went on to Dickens and Jones, which is shutting down after Christmas, so I was hoping for some clearance bargains. By this point I realised that I needed an overcoat worthy of those gloves should I break down and go back for them. I tried on a lovely black coat, but even in the process of trying it on I managed to transfer some of Other Cat's hair to it and that wasn't so attractive. We then found a clearance area for bed linen. I love stuff like that, so I spent about a half an hour with the Vol-in-Law rummaging through those. (Big points to the ViL for putting up with this.) We got some amazing bargains. We needed a new duvet cover, but we got two.

One was super cheap - 100% combed Egyptian cotton, for £15. The other was slightly more expensive (at £40) but it was Marimekko - and I do love my Finnish design houses. It was this pattern, Unikko designed by Maija Isola. Lovely. Perhaps not my favorite Marimekko pattern, but lovely nonetheless.

I'm so excited, I want to strip the bed immediately, but the ViL said he would prefer not to, and it's really a two person job.

...and a side of okra

Big Stupid Tommy loves sweet potato. Yumm. He loves it so much that he says - that forced to choose a last meal, sweet potato would be on the menu.

I love the "What would you have for your last meal?" game. It's kind of like "What would you do if you won a million bucks?" game, but low rent.

I do like some sweet potato and usually serve it instead of white potato as an accompanient to sausage or pork loin. But I'm not sure it would be on my last meal list. The rules of the "last meal game" are: meat and three, drink and dessert. That's it.

So if the warden came to me, and said "Vol, it's time to die. What would like for your last meal?" I guess it would be:

• catfish
• fried okra
• hushpuppies
• slaw (but the vinegar kind, not the mayonnaise kind)
• iced tea
• and lemon ice box pie for dessert.

Then if I were granted a twenty-four hour stay, my second last meal would be:

• stewed okra and tomatos
• cheesy grits casserole (that's polenta for you high-dollar readers)
• sausage
• grilled sweet potato
• beer
• and chocolate chess pie for dessert

And of course, if it were dawn execution, then my last breakfast would be:

• sausage biscuit
• gravy
• grits
• sliced tomato (but not just one measly, gray slice)
• coffee
• and a second sausage biscuit for dessert

What kind of gravy goes with crow?

Well... Go Vols. Hurray, we won a game. I've got that same kind of numb feeling that I had following the win over Memphis. To be honest, I'm kind of ambivalent. Perhaps if we had lost that would have meant a real shake-up (though we appear to be sloughing off assistant coaches like so much dead skin).

I've just come back from the expat Thanksgiving dinner which was organised through various alumni associations and of course football was discussed. Thankfully I didn't have to eat too much crow along with my turkey. P - a native Brit, but die-hard Texas fan (he hates teams that wear red even more than I do) had a few little jibes, but did ask rather solicitously about my brother's mental state. I had to say that VolBro wasn't too pleased with the current state of Volunteer football. A Vanderbilt graduate was supposed to come, but didn't make it. He had warned me in advance that I would be ribbed mercilessly.

I don't need a Vandy grad to torment me about the loss. I can feel it. Besides, the Vol-in-Law seems to be developing some sort of weird affinity for Vanderbilt and has been tossing the pro-Vandy bon mots around like Halloween candy. He went to Oxford himself, so maybe he sees them as some sort of fellow high-tone school. (I don't even think he's aware that Ole Miss is in Oxford.)

Hopefully, finally, we can put this season behind us and go move on to victory in 2006. One VOLuminous reader has a list of why Tennessee football bites. It's a dreadful catalogue of sins of ommission, commission and failed mission, but the variability of Tennessee orange has to be my favorite:

Pick a shade of orange and mandate its consistent usein your licensing agreements. There is no reason why those Orange Nation student t-shirts should be closer to Texas or Virginia orange than to Tennessee orange. Gather all non-compliant clothing and donate it to the poor in third world.

Cop killers

Last week a police officer was shot dead and her partner injured when they responded to an armed robbery in Bradford in the North of England. Three young men were seen running away from the slaying and this morning it has been announced that one suspect was arrested.

Sharon Beshenivsky's shooting death and the wounding of Teresa Milburn has prompted a number of debates. Some of these debates are open and predictable. Should police be armed? Should the Bobby on the Beat carry? The UK is one of two nations in the world where the police are not regularly armed.

Gun crime has been increasing in the UK. And though it is still more likely that criminals will not be armed than that they will, there are certainly increasing calls for police to be armed. The police themselves, and specifically the body that represents the most senior police the Association of Chief Police Officers (ACPO) are against it. But my sense is that most ordinary citizens grudgingly accept that police should be armed. However, there are some voices strongly against, and given that UK police seem to have a tendency to shoot the wrong guy, I can understand why this is.

My fellow American London blogger, Sarai of Anglofille, wrote:

This incident has renewed the debate over whether police should carry guns. From an American perspective,it’s rather astonishing that 90 percent of the British police force is unarmed. To me, police and guns are synonymous. I can’t imagine the police being able to do their job without having the threat of deadly force at their disposal. But then I guess that’s just the blood-thirsty Yank in me. A survey of the UK police force three years ago revealed that 80 percent of them do not want to be routinely armed.

And I would echo that, except for the bloodthirsty Yank bit, as I would never call myself a Yank.

There's also a less open debate about immigration policy. At least two of the suspects in Sharon Beshenivsky shooting are Somali. Near my office the other day, I saw a hand drawn sign pasted on the outside of a bagel shop which said:

Somalians fired the gun, but Blair loaded the bullets. How many more people will die as a result of Blair's misguided immigration policies?

This has not been a part of the mainstream coverage, but clearly there are some rumblings of discontent.

Finally, there's a debate which doesn't seem to be occurring at all. And that's one about Police recruitment and operational policies.

Sharon Beshenivsky was 37 years old and had only been working as a police officer for less than six months, before that she had been working as a childminder. I don't want to suggest that people in their 30s can't join the police, but it's probably not a good idea unless they have just left a career in the military or had been spending the last decade or so in a physically demanding job. I have to wonder why Sharon Beshenivsky was recruited as beat police officers. Her partner, Teresa Milburn who is of a similar age and a former machinist had only been a police officer for around a year.

I also have to wonder why it's the operational policy of the West Yorkshire police to respond to robberies with two unarmed, relatively inexperienced police officers.

Tags:Politics, Crime, Police

Buy nothing day

Well, I very nearly bought nothing yesterday. Free lunch. Managed to avoid buying any drinks at the three bars I patronised last night. (Tip: Don't go drinking with me, I'm rubbish at getting in my rounds. I usually owe everybody a drink or three.)

I started off my evening at my friend D's birthday drinks. I met his girlfriend V for the first time. She was marvellous. She's a primary school teacher, but seems to be of the "My favourite teacher is Miss V" variety rather than "Miss V is so mean." I've been working with D on a project for over two years now, and a lot of our best work has been done in pubs. Really. As I left, I said goodbye to V and she said "Now that I've met you, I know when D says he has a meeting with you, you two are really just drinking in the pub." But she said it in such a generous way. I replied "We work really, really hard in the pub."

I left there to catch the last 40 seconds of the Texas - Texas A&M game. I missed a heckuva game. I got some commiseration over the dreadful Volunteer football. I don't want sympathy, I want a winning football team. I don't want a team that's the laughing stock of the NCAA (Honk if your team beat Tennessee) But still... Good luck to Texas - the other UT. One guy - a completely obsessed football nut told me his prediction was that the Texas Tech coach (was it the head coach Mike Leach?) would be on his way to Knoxville soon.

I met up with the Texan there who was not endowed with her usual vim and vigor and powerful thirst for liquor. She's been working in North Africa and has caught some kind of Tunisian Tummy Trouble. I went with her to a cavernous bar called the Knights Templar near Chancery Lane. The Texan won't get on the Tube if she can help it, so we walked and we walked and we walked. (We could have got there quickly and easily with three stops on the central line and a 5 minute walk either end.) On the way, I lost my buzz and bought a six inch Subway Sub. My sole purchase.

We were only there an hour before we walked and walked and walked to Waterloo Station. Did I mention it was bloody cold? Freezing it was. Anyway, walking across Waterloo Bridge is one of the more amazing sights of London. Look to the right (if you're heading South) and you can see the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye. Look to the left and let your eye follow the line of the Strand and the glowing nighttime dome of St Paul's. Everyone has their favorite view in London, and this is the Texan's. It is indeed breathtakingly beautiful and ranks up there for me.

Of course, there was one other purchase. We bought our flights to Tennessee today. My stomach clenches at the thought of all that money. But it will be good to be back to the Home of the Vols. Perhaps, dear Tennessee readers, we can meet up for a drink.

Photo is from freefoto.com according to their terms and conditions.

In service to my country

I hope the American community of London appreciates what I did for them today. I had to go to a swanky London dinner club to taste the Thanksgiving meal we are having on Sunday and be fawned over by the restaurant staff during my lunch hour.

Actually it's a good thing we did go. The green beans were al dente and the pumpkin pie was too salty (a problem with the cups and teaspoons to metric conversion, I nearly spit it out).

But my gosh everything else was great. Best mashed potato I've ever had.

It's a tough, tough job. But someone has to do it.

Can you email me the leftovers?

From the mailbag:

VolBro emailed me to let me know:

We had Roasted Turkey, Fried turkey, Country ham, Cheesey potato casserole, HOMEMADE DRESSING*, (not that dry crumbly stovetop stuffing crap. It was good.), gravy for the previously mentioned dish, sweet potato/pecan something or other, cranberry fruit something or other, homemade rolls, cheesey potato casserole, green beans, and topped it off with chocolate chess and pecan pie.

But at least you had an Indian meal on Thanksgiving.







Photo ripped from the American Costume Company, Denver.

*this has been a matter of some controversy in our family. VolMom once called me to complain that one of our cousins L had usurped her assigned role of making the dressing. I asked why she had done it. "Well, probably because she thinks I'll make stovetop stuffing."
"Would you?"
"I was thinking of it, yes."
"Then I agree with L."

Thanksgiving abroad

Thanksgiving dinner:
Tonight we enjoyed a lovely curry, on which the Vol-in-Law worked extra hard. He had to ring the take-away three times, because their phone was busy.

Tomorrow, I go to the restaurant where we're having Thanksgiving this Sunday with over 100 expats. We've arranged with the venue to "test" the food to make sure it's, you know, authentic.

The meaning of the holiday:
Yesterday before I left a pretty intense training course, I wished everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do. Anyway... some grumbly ol' cuss said "What's the point of that holiday anyway?"

I said "You're supposed to reflect on what you're thankful for."

"Like thankful you've invaded foreign countries?" he said.

Long pause. Silence falls across the room. "Yes, if that's what you're thankful for."

-0-

Well, I've been reflecting today. Not as much as I should, but more than the Grumbly Ol' Cuss, I bet.

I'm thankful for all sorts of things - friends, family, reasonable health. A decent job. I'm thankful to be living in London in such interesting times. Really, I'm incredibly lucky. I've seen a lot and done a lot. I like the talents I've been given. Even if I can't be in America celebrating this holiday, I have loads of good memories of Thanksgiving with my extended family.

-0-

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Happy Thanksgiving.

She's still gagging for it

Looks like the British attitude to rape extends all the way to the judiciary.

Since when does slumped in a hallway mean consent to be penetrated by a security guard?

Happy Thanksgiving

Well, Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. Today I am not doing anything for Thanksgiving. Some years I do and some years I don't. Given that I no longer have a working oven, this will be a year without a big home cooked Thanksgiving dinner (maybe I'll get some turkey steaks and do them on the George Foreman). I will be attending a big Thanksgiving event on Sunday with around 120 members of the American community. But in our host country, today is a working day and so those of us with British employers or clients are working.

Sometimes it can be a little sad that you're not gathered round a big table eating turkey and whatever sides are traditional in your family - but it could be a heck of a lot worse. I'm working at home today, so even though I have a lot to get through, I am indeed thankful that I'm not commuting. I'm also thankful that I'm at home and not on the road.

The worst Thanksgiving I spent in the UK, I had to travel up to the northwest. I spent the afternoon of Thanksgiving interviewing senior police officers and then standing for around a half hour in front of the closed police headquarters in the freezing weather waiting for a cab. I spent the evening dining alone at the Holiday Inn Preston Ringway and watching tv in my hotel room. I mostly just tried to pretend that it wasn't Thanksgiving.

So enjoy your day and be thankful you're not in Preston.

All a gal could want

Thanks to Rex L Camino and Cabelas, I now know exactly what I want for Christmas.

Oh, yes. It's the ultimate accessory.

Now, I could excuse you for thinking that perhaps a girl who had not one, but two of these already might not need another one. The one on the right I scrounged from my in-laws and the one on the left I found at a thrift store in Prague. And you know, it was so dang cold, I promptly put that second-hand Eastern European hat on my head and wore it, if not proudly, then at least warmly.





But I think you have to admit that that Cabelas hat is purely something else.

To be honest it reminded me of a documentary I once saw on Cats. I was all excited, thinking it would be all about the secret life of cats, but instead it was all about how pesky cats were and how we must reduce their numbers. I'm a cat lover, so this didn't go down to well with me. Especially, when I saw this guy who also likes fur hats a la Cabelas, but weird Australian naturalist John Wamsley's is made of cat.



Seeing cruelty to cats always makes me want to give my cats affection. So I said "no dead cats for hats" - and picked up Other Cat and put her on my head. Not advisable. She took a plug out of me.

And here's what she thinks of other kinds of furry hats.

Granddad blogging: Escape from the front

Last week, my grandfather nearly got his million dollar wound. This week he gets off the front, with just a little bit of deception and comments on his time in the catering corps and French hygiene standards.

But our company had gotten so weak and down so low that they pulled us back to the rest area, and I think it was in Nancy, France. I’m not sure where it was. But anyway they pulled us back and fed us and re-outfitted us and did this, that and the other and we were way away from the front.

And the only thing we had to do at night, somebody had to stay on the telephone. And they called on the telephone that night and said the cook up at Battalion headquarters got some kind of disease and they were gonna have to send him back to the States and said we want your company to send a cook up there.

Well I went down to the First Sergeant and said they’d called from Battalion Headquarters and said they wanted me to come up and cook for ‘em. And he said “Cook? Hell, what do you know about cooking?” I said “Well, man I’m a graduate from the Army Cook and Baker’s school.” And he cussed a little more and said “Get yourself up there.” And that was the last of my front activities.

And I was back cooking again, I was cooking for about 20 or 30 men. We had one unit out of a field oven that we carried with us and it was loaded in a jeep every time we moved. And the Assistant Battalion Commander had the last, when you tear a command post down, the assistant battalion commander was the last one to leave and the jeep that held my stove was hooked on to his jeep. So I was as far back as you could possibly get and that worked much better.

****

I went through Hitler’s Eagle Nest. I went up there to it, saw it, didn’t go through it. We went up there ‘cause that was the only place that I knew of in Germany or Austria where they made ice. They had an ice plant. We’d go up there to get ice. The only other ice you got was where in the winter time they cut huge blocks of ice out of the river – and the rivers were polluted something awful, but we’d throw those anti-pollution drugs in that water and make ice tea and then throw those pills in the water. Supposed to kill anything and everything. Drink it right on.

****

[What was it polluted with? Sewage?]

Aw, the people were so thick. You’d go in these French farmyards and they would have a concrete pit not quite as big as this room, but nearly, and it sloped toward a hole in the middle and all the straw and everything from the cows and the horses and everything was pitched in that pit and the dad-gum well water wouldn’t be as far from here to the kitchen from that pit where all that water ran in the ground.

And then all the human waste was saved and it pumped out in great big tanks and wagons, they called ‘em honey wagons and they’d take those out and I don’t know if there was enough liquid with it or if they put more liquid with it or not, but they’d spray all the vegetable gardens with that – the lettuce and the carrots, spinach and everything else.

And I guess the sewers, I don’t know, I didn’t see a sewer treatment plant, I guess it went straight in the river. As far as I know it did. We were supposed to have water purification outfits with us to purify the water. I know I was pumping water into a jerry can out of one of these wells close to the manure pit one night and some Lieutenant Colonel came by and wanted to know what I was doing. And I told him I was getting water to cook with or wash dishes or something, I don’t know what.

Oooh, he chewed me out, up one side and down the other. Said I was supposed to be using water from this purification plant. I said “Sir, I never have seen any water from a purification plant.” And he cussed around there for a while and they sent two jerry cans of water that they said was purified, I don’t know whether it was or not. I never did see another one.


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Busted!

Remember Babar Ahmad - the guy from Tooting who is probably shortly on his way to the good old US of A for trial on terrorism charges?

Well, someone in his family, my guess is his wife (but no real indication one way or the other since it's an anonymous comment) - has expressed regret that we haven't popped 'round for a friendly chat.

Sure thing, hon. Next time I'm up on Fountain Road, I'll drop by, since they're such a normal family.

But she's right on one thing I do have to fess up to poor spelling on the word extradition.

____

Just as a little reminder here's the US Department of Justice request for extradition (link to a large pdf file)

Here's a tip

So Bush wanted to bomb the headquarters of the Arabic television station Al Jazeera. Some people are more than a little disturbed by this.

But I say, heck, it's an easy mistake to make - what with all them Al-this-as and Al-thattas.

Here's a little primer.

This is Al Qaeda - our enemy.











This is Al Jazeera, that pesky Arab television station.

And this an Al Pacino. He's just an actor. Really.

Cultivating controversy

O England, the green and pleasant land
Thou art Mecca for the gardener's hand

Part of my anglophilia can be attributed to my love of gardening. My whole family (at least on VolMom's side) are big gardeners. My grandfather always had a pretty yard (and he raised lovely orchids)and his two daughters have taken it to the next level. VolMom regularly wins prizes in Lawrenceburg for good gardening in both the commercial and domestic categories and my aunt is on the Nashville pond and water garden tour. (You tour, the ponds stay where they are)

I was surrounded by books and magazines extolling English gardens (e.g. Kew and Wisley). And when I worked at Oakes Nursery and Garden Center in Knoxville for a number of years one of my colleagues, Ty, was a devotee of English horticulture, and he had a strong influence on my approach. Fort Sanders residents of a certain era may remember the wild and colorful garden on Highland Ave next to the fire station. That was me.

The first night I arrived in the UK, I was astounded to see prime time network coverage of the Chelsea Garden Show. Gardening in England is just as big and just as wonderful as I ever imagined.

But when people care that much about something, they can be a bit precious about the subject, too. Garden snobbery is rife. There is even a term in regular usage to denote "common, or not class" that comes from a horticultural distinction "yew" or "non-yew". Class gardeners used slow growing yews, common oik use privet for hedging. Of course, when lesser gardeners caught on and starting using Taxus for themselves even yews became "non-yew" for a time.

This morning on the Today programme Anne Wareham was on saying that gardening standards were slipping and what was needed were professional critics (perhaps she fancied herself for the role). She thought gardeners were using "too many plants" and that public gardens should have a more artistic and modern approach.

Here’s what she says in The Guardian:

… their association with gardens is more about "how-to" and plants than art. If
someone sits down in front of an easel with a brush in their hand, all their
thoughts and cultural notions about art hover over their shoulder, but anyone
can happily garden without thinking for a moment about art or aesthetics.

Yikes! Too focused on plants? Not focused enough on art. I do think about impact and effect when I garden – and I garden in the round thinking through seasons, colors, smells, texture and sound. What the garden looks like at night and in the day. But I’m not sure I want Anne Wareham in my garden with her own tastes and reflections. My garden is a private thing. My garden is also a work in progress and an experiment – it’s not a finished work ready for criticism. I constantly seek new ideas and discuss with others, but in the end I need only please myself.

I worry that Anne Wareham’s vision is less about green and living things and more about the light playing on concrete blocks and decking. And in gardening terms, it all sounds a bit non-yew to me.

My fellow Americans

Out of original ideas today, I'll do a little round up of what my fellow Americans in London (greater Metropolitan area) are up to. I could call this Expat Monday. Does that work?

Nicole is going to be walking with llamas, let me know how that goes.

Elle and alpha males - they don't impress her much.

Scott is mad at the BBC - again. This time over Bush and the locked doors. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for W. I've tried to exit through closets or panelling myself. Of course, I don't have a professional staff looking after me making sure I leave by the right door.

Robert speculates on how the AP would cover the Gettysburg Address today. Being a Southerner, I would just normally expect Lincoln to get bad press, but Robert's from New York.
Monica has been cuttin' the fat (really, read it) and now she's knackered.

Jen, my near neighbour, is all holiday focused with a post on an upside down Chrismas tree. (I won't be buying one, I don't think she will either.) But at least you have more room for the presents.

Jessica's been in the pub - and this is just one of the things she overheard:

German: I am sick of talking about British TV shows from when you all were kids, let's talk about German TV.
Brit: We don't have any German TV here
German: Exactly! We have to import all your crap shows and all you have from us is WWII

Kathy F still wants Cheney Impeached and she's learned some saucy local history.

Maureen informs us that the Benjamin Franklin House in London will soon be open. I'm sure Marcia, the director of Ben Franklin House, has done a swell job on a long-running, painstaking project.

Sarai at what must be the cleverest blog titles of the bunch - Anglofille - has a post dissecting one of Britain chick rags and which ends with calling for Gordon Ramsay's castration. Too late, he's already bred.


...and that's all the ones I've found... An American expat in London? - email me - you can find the address in my profile.

Tags: London, expat