Photography

Yes. So. Edinburgh, if you'd missed that. I've tried to filter thru my camera and find some of the best shots I had to post along your way. I haven't actually taken all that many-- I get too distracted with looking at things to stop and take their pictures. That, and most of the things I'd want to take pictures of are tedious and fleeting and are best enjoyed by actually witnessing them. Some things simply don't suffer being photographed. On the other hand, it turns out I've got a pretty good camera (thanks again to Officer Obie), and a lot of the time it will pick up slack unexpectedly.

For instance...

The following picture of Edinburgh castle, taken from The Meadows below, has some incredible colour to it. The castle, in the centre of Old Edinburgh, is perched at the highest end of a massive volcanic chunk-- the plug, actually, to a once-active volanic cone. The road leading downhill from the castle, towards the Royal Palace, and looking towards the Forth of Firth (or Firth of Forth...truly sorry, but I forget. I've actually heard people say both, tho I know one is wrong.) is known as the Royal Mile, and is itself also a geologic feature. Apparently, in one of the previous Ice Ages, a glacier slid down the top of this volcanic cone and perfectly smoothed off a stretch almost exactly one mile in length. All of this happened off of the left side of the picture. On the near side, and indeed around every other angle but that which the Royal Mile occupies, the castle appears to be a completely impregnable fortress. I've yet to tour the castle (pricey), so I don't know whether this appearance translated to actuality or not. Nor do I know precisely how many different castles and forts have perched themselves on the vacant foundations of others' past, but this is certainly just the newest in a long line of edifices erected on this precipice.



The next picture is taken (on an AMAZING day by any nation's standards) of the structure known as Edinburgh's Disgrace. Wanting to make his city the pride of the North, an overzealous Grecophile attempted to copy Athen's Parthenon atop a hill overlooking the Forth (harbour, essentially). As you can see, he successfully completed the front steps, 12 columns, and a cap to keep them from swaying. There is nothing beyond what you see. I like it, myself. Sure, it's a shame the project was budgeted and carried out so poorly, but it's got so much more character than an exact replica would've had. Katie says that this is the prime place to watch fireworks from, because they fire them off just behind where I was standing to take the photo, as well as multiple other places throughout the city and surrounding hills, all of which this porch commands a view of.



And here's one of Katie, seated atop the steps of the Porch (as I've decided to call it, the Disgrace just seeming like such a slight and insult to an otherwise beautiful monument--finished or no). The street you're looking down just beyond her is Prince's, the main high street. If you can't read the clock, this was taken at about 2.37, last Wednesday, I believe it must've been. Obviously, the film colour confuses things, but the sky was just as blue and magnificient as in the previous photo.



And here's some legendary Scottish fare. Birthed in Glasgow, about 75 miles (give or take, completely guesstimating here) to the west of the capital (Edinburgh), this culinary delight is one of those that you either love or hate. Now, I do enjoy a bit of the local diet. Haggis is, despite its reputation, marvellous, when prepared well. Steak or mince (beef) pies, particularly Katie's mother's, could sustain the average man for days, I suspect. Nips, tatties, scones, and whisky I can take down with the best of them. However, I opted to pass on this one, without even a trial sample. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh.



Welcome to Lent, by the way. I happened to spend Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras in French, or Shrove Tuesday in traditional English-- the day you do everything you'll be confessing and renouncing to the Shreve at mass the next day-- Ash Wednesday) out at Katie's parents' house, outside the city, in the village of Lasswade. Now, by gosh, Katie's mother can cook. We had mince (ground beef) pies, topped with fluffy, flaky pastry; vegetable soup thick enough to float a spoon on; 4 different veggies; potatoes, both roasted and mashed; scones; sponge cake with cream; apple pie with cream; and I don't know what all, and I put on a half a stone (seven pounds) in food weight alone. I know because I put myself on the scales both before and after dining. I should feel guilty, but my stomach was hurting enough with the strain of streching to go to the trouble of cramping over such a thing as gluttony.

So, in penance, and out of budget and health considerations, Katie and I decided to have a chip and dip night last night, Ash Wednesday, at her flat. Now, her kitchen is roughly the size of the computer you're currently sitting at, but somehow, the 2 of us were able to conduct some sort of culinary dance and only stomp toes (mine) once in the course of the hour we spent in there, making 5 different dips. There was no need for such excess-- you'd've thought there was a housefull expected, not just the two of us, but we were having a really good time, being creative and all that. Here's what we learned last nite: surprising tho it may be, garlic and pineapple are a phenomenal combination; when making salsa, blacken your main ingredients-- peppers, tomatoes, pineapple, onions-- without oil in a cast iron skillet, then dice them (cheers to my uncle Mark for that tip). Beautiful flavour. Also, coriander suits any dip. Period. Following, you'll see the finished products, after we'd eaten our fill. Working round anticlockwise (to the left) from the bowl of lime-laced tortilla chips (the big, nearly empty bowl, actually), we have: hummus (diced, ground, and otherwise mutilated chick peas. I don't know what else she put in it, but it had a great kick. This is an Old dish. Greek, I believe.), a yogurt and mustard combo with a whoooole lot of whang to it, guacamole (also Katie. My guacamolean standards are pretty high, due to the familiarity and amassed years of expereience my mother's family has in concocting this variant of avocado salad, and I had to admit that Katie far exceeded what I expected anyone not related to my grandmother to be capable of.), pineapple salsa (with garlic, coriander, and green chiles in sunflower seed oil. Should've blackened the pineapple, and left out some of the onion.), and finally, tomato salsa (made with cherry tomatoes from the mustgo bin, blackened capsicums (green peppers), and a whole slew of other herbs that have my mouth watering now.)



Believe I'll go have lunch now. Katie's mom sent me leftovers.

Yahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Piggly Wiggly It Ain't

I love grocery shopping. This is primarily due to the fact that I love food, and a grocery store is nearly always your guaranteed best bet for purchasing food. Secondly, if you're in a new place, grocery shopping allows you to observe the locals in a natural habitat, finding out what they eat, how they dress, what sorts of folks are out at what particular hours during the day, and what all schools of thought frequent different grocerial institutions. It allows and necessitates rediscovering how to shop, live, and sustain oneself. A regular adventure in modern existence.

When I lived out in North Carolina for 6 months, I loved shopping at the Blowing Rock Food Lion. A chain based primarily in the American southeast, Food Lion is one of those particular grocers that thinks that issuing a 'membership card' will inspire customer loyalty. Not true. It will nearly guarantee that regular customers will purchase the sale items weekly, but it also allows one to assume, as a professional grocer, that these same sale-fickle customers have similar, if not identical gossamer contracts with the competition. In the town of Boone, North Carolina (population: roughly 20,000; 36,000 during university terms-- GO APP STATE!) there is a Food Lion, a Lowe's Foods, a Winn Dixie, and not one, but TWO Harris Teeter's. All four of these chains offer incentive programs, wherein a customer fills out an 'application,' are given a 'membership card' and then receive routine discounts that non-members do not. Since every store has different sales every week, many customers will shop under all four different marquees. But, as a customer, you can feel good about yourself, because you belong. I know always felt good flashing out my Food Lion card. I forget the logo on it, but I remember that the Harris Teeter cards were little triangle-shaped key chains that read 'VIP' (Very Important Person) (or Value Induced Purchaser) (or, Variable Infidelity Policy) (or, Variously Intrigued Patronage). But Food Lion loyal was I. I had my pride. (GET IT??? LIONS? PRIDE? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

When I moved to Nottingham, England, my Mexican housemates, Juan y Alexis, got me hooked on Sainsbury's. There were two of them, roughly equidistant from my home in Dunkirk. I typically went to the one in Beeston, because there were quite a few other shops worth visiting on the Beeston High Street, but changed my preferences when I realised that I could walk along the canal (The Beeston Cut of the Trent River) the entire length from my home to the store at Castle Marina, which was bigger than its small town cousin, with a better selection. There was a Tesco in the Nottingham city centre, but that involved purchasing a bus ticket (unnecessary, given that I could walk for free to Sainsbury's, and that I couldn't fit enough groceries in my share of the kitchen to render walking difficult), and, since then, some of the corporate practices of that chain have really put me off. Beeston also boasted a Farm Foods, an Iceland, any numer of Spars (German chain--small, convenient, expensive), a Somerfield, and there may've even been a Lidl somewhere around. In Wales and Yorkshire, the store with the most presence seemed to be Morrison's (Who love giving you more reasons to shop at Morrison's), and here and there could be found Asda, the UK equivalent of Wal-Mart (and also therefore on my list of less-than-ethical businesses), but I pretty well tried to keep with Sainsbury's. Their quality and selection simply rates. Unless you're trying out their allegedly American-style root beer...

However, here I am now in Edinburgh, Scotland for a few weeks. Food still being high on my priority list, I've had a mosey around my temporary headquarters and discovered two MidScot supermarkets, the local derivative of the national COOP chain. COOP's OK-- I gave them a bit of patronage in Yorkshire, back in October, but my friend and personal local, Katie, absolutely swears by them. They are competitively priced (their only competition here in Stockbridge is a pair of Margiottas-- seemingly Italian versions of Spar.), and many of their products are supplied by Fair Trade--an organisation that helps to ensure just treatment and market value for the (Quite often) third world producers of their various offered goods. COOP's store brand chocolate, for that matter, is a Fair Trade product. And I do love my chocolate. It's nice to know that my personal indulgences can do the world some good. I've already aligned my allegiance to one particular of the two local COOPs: the larger one, nearest me, has what I and Mama (my grandmother Brown) would term a shelf for mustgoes. As in, it Must Go today, or it Must Go to the bin. When products near their expiration date, the management chops their price in half, or more, and moves it to the clearance rack. There's almost always some meat or cheese, nice breads and pastries-- at the very least, enough food to last a day, which is about as long as I'm concerned about, currently. Best yet, my first day in the country, there were 3 dozen buffalo wings on said shelf. They were amazing. I didn't realise the Brits could do spicy so well.

What they can't do well, unfortunately, is Peanut Butter. I am the All-American Kid, in that I can live on Peanut Butter and Jam sandwiches (PBJs) for weeks at a time. My European, British, and Antipodian acquaintances think I'm nuts, and I suppose if all they have to go on is Peanut Butter of a type such as the COOP sells, then I can understand why. Jif and Skippy it ain't. What they have here is good, it turns out, if you add it to mushroom soup. Don't gag. Bear in mind, I'm not talking about American Peanut Butter. The stuff here is much more of a paste, it's bland, and just vaguely salty. As such, it goes a long way as far as thickening up an otherwise over-liquefied soup, and adds a more well-rounded effect to the flavour than ordinary table salt would, with the added bonus of not simply upping the sodium count. As far as making PBJs, though, it leaves a bit to be desired.

No, it may not come in a big red tub bearing the brandname "Peter Pan," but, then again, I didn't buy it at the Piggly Wiggly.


*Pictures forthcoming*

Hoots, Mon!

And greetings all, from sunny Scotland! No! Really! Tis gorgeous here. Have spent the past 2 days walking along the water of Leith, both directions as it flows out of Edinburgh.

Didn't know I was tripping off American soil again, so soon? Feel no harm or shame, I beg you. I kept this one under wraps as much as I was able. I do have pictures to post to you, already, but, as always when in Europe, internet time is limited. Look for them in a few days.

Happy Valentine's Day to you all! I celebrated by making an intercontinental prank call to a certain John Deere dealership and making a request that ended hotly with one of us suggesting the other swallow a few nuts and bolts and create our own parts... Howdy to Todd, on that one... And also by presenting a toy tractor (and what better Valentine Gift?) to a certain someone...

Hope y'all's was equally enjoyable.
cheers for now
jeffro

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!

*To which, for the uninformed, the proper response is:

"Oi! Oi! Oi!"

And then the ceremonial tipping back of the beer. And today there will be plenty of that going on, particularly in London (or Northern Australia, as it is translated on most Antipodian maps...)

Those of y'all from the Land Down Under, I hope wherever ye are today, be it Aus itself, the US, Banff Canada, or gosh knows where in Europe, you're able to hear enough of your own music to remind you of the warmth your missing, but not so much as to drive you batty and embarass you.

So, to the Aussies:

Happy Australia Day in general (don't go trying to fry an egg over the eternal flame neath the Arc d'Triumph in Paris, either-- they'll be expecting that, you know)

Dean O'Bailey- Happy belated Birthday!

Lisa- Happy Birthday in advance. Today 1 year ago, we were in Lisbon, I'd been in a horrendous mood, and went out and did something shocking and quite out of character... Then we went to Porto for your birthday, and I think that must've been one of my favourite stops last year. The free Port wine certainly helped... I hope you're well.

Beau- Y'all think about it...

And to the rest of y'all, tip one for the Aussies today. But if you do, don't be the typical Podian and think you're all cool drinking a Foster's. They hate the stuff Down Under...

Cheers!

Expensive Dang Dessert...

My FAVOURITE book as a child was entitled "The Blueberry Pie Elf." It was written in the mid 1950s by Jane Thayer, illustrated by a gentleman who used only blue ink (in true, mid-century children's book monochromatic fashion), about an elf who simply cannot get enough blueberry pie to satiate himself, and begins leaving subtle hints to the family whose house he secretly cohabits that they might consider baking that particular delight a bit more often.

Strangest thing was, I didn't even like blueberries. Even now, I only eat them in muffins, or in conjunction with red berries. But the book now, the book...

My mom and I wore the only local copy out. I bet she checked it out of the Springdale Public Library every other week. I honestly don't think anyone else ever had a chance. I also suppose it must've been my fault, therefore, that the book got to such a state that the library either threw it away or sold it on. In either case, the book disappeared from my fragile life at a young age, and I've dreamt for years untold about holding it again.

There's not a used book store I've ever passed that I haven't inquired within as to their having the book for sale. Never have I met success. So, today, in desperation, and boredom at work, I consulted google. I found a reproduction recently released and for sale via amazon, but it's got full colour pictures, and is paperback. I prefer the red hardback with blue ink.

There is ONE for sale on ebay. It's the red hardback, with blue ink, and it even still has the tell-tale Dewey Decimal sticker on the spine indicating that it shared the same early fate as what was nearly my personal copy. The auction ends in 8 hours, there are no bids, and the cost is ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. For a book that sold for all of 85 cents new. I love the book, and would deeply enjoy having it again, but egad man. That's a hella price to put on regaining childhood bliss...

I've found the keys to paradise, but they're in a glass-fronted soda pop machine and I'm out of change...

I Gave A Pig A Pancake...

The other day, because I have a conscience that won't let me do otherwise, I stopped to help someone with automobile troubles. I didn't want to. Honestly. Quite often, I don't want to, but I almost always stop to help folks whom I think I could. Call it paying it forward, or preventative karma- beating fate at its own game. I do, truly, like helping folks when I can, but it's so often an inconvenience. I have 'more important things' to consider.

But how important would I think someone else's priorities really were if I were the one carrying the tell-tale red 1-gallon gas can down the side of the road when the temperature's below freezing with the wind whipping through my threads? But I was busy. But you've been stranded before. But I'm late for work. Since when did you want to be there that badly?

This whole debate took about 4 and a half seconds before I turned around to give Daniel and Kara, as their names turned out to be, a lift to the gas station and back. I felt good about the decision the whole time, until we got back and the car had been run so dry that it wouldn't start. This was a relatively new car, with fuel injection, so there was no hope of simply dousing the carburetor with fuel until the engine fired. Either it would start, or it wouldn't.

It was at this point that I remembered the children's book entitled "If You Give a Pig a Pancake," which is the latest in a series begun with "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." The tales are lively and funny, and run through the potential predicament you could land yourself in by sugaring up lesserly evolved mammals who cannot do their own supermarket shopping. If you give a pancake, he'll want syrup, and eventually will end up in your pajamas, in your bed, while you get up early to cook more pancakes. Not the exact plotline, but you get the idea. Nothing is so simple as its appearance.

Daniel's car wouldn't start, and this meant that either I could wish them luck and wave goodbye (as other folks might have done once retrieving them to the car-- once I was this involved, I felt compelled to see them on their way), and be a jerk, or I could offer them yet another ride...somewhere. As it turned out, the car did finally start, but not before I knew fully the threat of filling vermin with chocolate chips.

Applying the book, then, to real life, just makes me more leary-- I like to be helpful, but apparently my generosity has its stretches. This is harsh and selfish, even for me. Six weeks ago I was staying in the house of someone who met me on a bus and thought I looked like I could use a warm bed and a homecooked meal. How quickly we forget...

Loving, in any capacity, is rarely convenient. We are, by nature, self-serving and self-preserving, and putting the needs and concerns of anyone else ahead of ourselves, so far as I've seen, isn't always the easiest, nor most pleasant task. But someone took a risk on me, and I like to think I left them feeling justified and fulfilled by the occasion.

Strangely enough, Jesus advises us: "Don't give your pearls to pigs, and don't give dogs what is sacred, lest they turn upon you and turn you to pieces." (CAUTION: that's the JBLTV- Jeffro Brown loosely translated version- I'll try and get an exact quote when I get home, unless Lori or Tim can beat me to it...) Love then, but evaluate your recipient, I suppose. Of course, then, there's that new Sean Been movie, where he poses as a hitchhiker caught in a rainstorm and then proceeds to destroy the existence of the generous folks who have pity on him.

Blast, but it's a hanged confusing planet we inhabit. I've gone and confused myself from my original point, which, stated simply, was:

Give a Pig a Pancake.

Posts, Points, and Borders

I'm finally back to something that feels like home should. I've spent the past 2 days rebuilding the barbed-wire fence that is the northernmost border of what remains of my grandfather's farm. I may be lacking in any number of skills and talents, but by gosh I can build a fence.

I've no idea whether it excites any of y'all or not, but I had to tear down and salvage as much of the old fence as possible, and in doing so doubled my at-hand amount of t-posts (the sort of post you build a barbed-wire fence with), and coiled up nearly a mile of wire suitable for reuse into what looked like galvanised Christmas wreaths for some sort of sadistic Yuletide dinner. Then I hand-drove about 50 of the aformentioned posts into the ground over a stretch of about 200 yards/metres, give or take, and stretched 5 new strands of wire along them. The first 3 wires were from the existing, painfully coiled wreaths, and as such, were unrolled and spliced in one at a time, with mimimal effort. The last 2 had to be unrolled from a new, multi-mile coil of wire on the back of the tractor, near the far post. This was done by wrapping my elkhide gloves in a coil or two of the new wire, and walking away from the tractor at about a 45 degree angle to the earth's crust. It was something like playing tug of war with an octopus, yet winning (by degrees). My entire body is wracked and sore.

On the other hand, my entire body is wracked and sore. I like knowing that I've worked. That I've earned my daily allotment of sleep and oxygen. And the pork chops in homemade gravy with brown-beans-and-ham and homemade cornbread, followed by a yellow cake with a caramel and coffee icing that my grandmother made to sustain me thru the lunchtime hours.

Yes, it's been a grand week. I'll sleep sooooooo well tonite.

Hippy New Year!!

Well, as I said last time: when the rest of the world declares a holiday or other general hullabaloo, we make for the woods...

I went with a different crowd, and with different aims this time, though. I spent New Years' Eve, Hugmanae, back down at Devil's Den State Park, near West Fork, Arkansas. (So named because it's situated upon the west fork of the White River).

Present were my friends Tim and Genessa, with a string of Christmas lights across the front of their '67 yellow Split window VW, Adam and Kara, in their '78 tie-dyed, hand painted VW Westphalia edition with a string of white lights along the tent, and John and Amber in their mid-70s microbus standard.

Have I mentioned that I want a VW Camper? They haunt my dreams...

Here's a better shot of Tim's bus... He's proud of it.



Tim's in the process of fabricating a replica of an original Westphalia interior for it. Thus far he's got a nearly complete bed and the guts of a refrigerator. Within 2 weeks, he'll be an expert on the matter. So, anyone with questions about refitting split window buses with original style interiors can direct their questions to him here

WHOOOHOOO! Did that work? Did I include a link? Freaking YEAH!
Y'all have a happy Friday.

Cliches in Abundance

The day after Thanksgiving, the American Holiday, is known as Black Friday. It is the biggest shopping day of the year, and those brave or dumb enough to risk public appearances, anywhere from shopping malls to coffee shops to the average traffic light quickly understand why the epithet has been attached. The past 2 years, I've been out of the country.

The day after Christmas is probably the second biggest shopping day: after Christmas sales, end of year events, returns, and gift cards all tempt the otherwise debatably sensible masses out of the peace and warmth of a day at home with American football and leftovers (We don't celebrate Boxing Day, in name at least). Last year, I spent this evil day travelling between Roma and Venezia, Italia.

This year, I did the smartest thing I could imagine, and followed my best friend Brandon out of town. He spends the hectic days in the woods. This seemed like the best solution to me, and a few others, as well, so we loaded up the Red Dragon (my petroleum fed pickup truck) with my old 18 foot trailer laden with 5 fourwheelers, pitched in enough food and sleeping apparati into the cargo box. And Brandon, his younger brother Vinny (my sister's boyfriend, conveniently enough), and our friends Cody (whom we call Younger, to avoid confusion between himself and my cousin Cody- who's older than Younger), and Ryan called Tucker, and myself, made our way down the off the Ozark Plateau towards that area of the Boston Mountains known as Devil's Den.

I was nearing sick, and am not improved after a nite out of doors, but I don't regret it. Let the rest of the world run to the commercial centers, we prefer the safety and calm of the wilderness. We were certainly fulfilling every notion of rednceck America, particularly Arkansas, all bedecked in camouflage and Carhartts, making chili over an open fire, drinking root beer, riding four wheelers, and spitting a lot.

I borrowed my grandfather's 20 year old Honda for the occasion, and am still impressed at how well it still performed after having set for 5 months without starting. If you're in the market, Honda gets my vote.






PS- Be sure and scroll on down, I posted twice otherwise today.
Cheers! and Happy New Years'!

My Ring

As near as I can tell, there was no country in the western world not somewhat affected by the American stock market crash of Black Thursday, October 24, 1929 . America itself plunged into the Great Depression, a vile, ominous period that sought dominance over the previous champion, the Pretty Good Depression of 1867, and its weaker cousin, the Slump, a few years later. (Pardon, please, my irreverant treatment of these dark days of modern history. Laugh to keep from crying.)

The Great Depression hit northwest Arkansas with a vengeance. After half a century of unsustainable agricultural practices in what had been a deciduous forest for centuries untold, the topsoil of mid-America was left dried and without minerals and water, and began, after a 7-year drought begun in the late 20s, to simply blow away. Northwest Arkansas, along with northeas Oklahoma, southwest Missouri, and areas further afield, became known as The Dust Bowl. Airborne silt filtered its way into automobile engine compartments, shut and drawn windows, and eventually, the diet of the locals. Quite a few people left for sunny California, America's Promise Land.

Mine didn't. On the one side, they were too poor to move. On the other, they held jobs in town, with the school and Post Office, and managed to subsist, barely. This was my dad's family, the Browns. My grandfather, Marion Edison (Marion, Ed, M.E., or 'B' as I like to call him), was born in '24, and remembers the poverty of his developing years with striking keenness. He had few, if any, 'bought' toys. The man can by gosh make a kite tho-- he had a decade of practice, collecting old newspapers and twigs, binding them together with glue made from flour or cornmeal. By the time he'd saved long enough to buy string, he would've had a dozen kites awaiting.

He listened to a radio serial once a week, the name of which escapes us both. It featured some super hero, one of dozens of men that were beyond the constraints of their modern world and its financial difficulties and natural disasters, and like a continent full of boys his age, he never missed an episode. At one point, the breakfast cereal company that sponsored the show put out a promotion, whereby, if you sent in the proper order form, the tops of 10 of their boxes, and 25 cents shipping, they would send you a tin replica of the superhero's ring. As an 8 year old, young Ed simply couldn't continue living without one. Unfortunately, he had to, as his family either couldn't afford that much cereal, or by the time they did, the offer had ended, or they couldn't spare the 25 cents. Any road, my grandfather didn't get his ring, and like all of the other little defeats suffered in his early years, he filed it away for future justification.

30 years later, when he had built up a bit of savings for the purpose, he went to a jeweler, either with the original promotion ad from the cereal box, if he'd tucked it away and saved it that long, or simply an image in his mind, and had the jeweler make up the most impressive duplicate of this ring possible. B wore the ring for nearly 50 years, until it ceased to fit in old age, and retired it to a box in his dresser. There it stayed until I mentioned it in passing during a conversation about his Dad, Emerson Leslie Brown. He looked surprised that I'd taken interest in the band, as the rest of the family thought it a might garish, and said it was still around, would I like it? Of course I did, and there've been less than a dozen days in the previous 2 years since he gave it to me that I haven't worn it myself, through nearly 20 different countries, and half a dozen US states.

The [Photographic] Christmas Card I really wanted to send...

For those who'd forgotten my quirky sense of humor.

The Christmas Card

Well, here it is, my annual, much awaited Christmas card. Much more belated than usual, at that... I hope you're not all too underwhelmed. This is actually last year's card, but as not everyone I know has read it, and since I got such positive feedback, I use it again. There was to be a picture included this year, but once again, blasted dial-up internet and cantankerous home computer have willed otherwise.

Any rate, I hope that on this holiday we call Christ's Mass your hearts and souls may be filled with love for one another. Bear in mind, that even though Jesus, called Christ, was actually born sometime far earlier in the year than December, and not in a cozy, clean, tidy little stable like a more traditional Christmas card might lead you to believe, he did in fact come as a gift of love to you and every other person on the planet, whether you love Him or them or not. May you give out of love yourself, may your Christmas be merry, may you survive unscathed the intense marketing and commercial schemes that have been threatening your sanity for the last few months, may you value what you have not as much as you ought to value what you do in fact have.

To those of you not Christians, I apologize for the mess and confusion that our most publicized holy day may inflict upon you. I won't say that Christmas isn't about gifts or some jolly old man in a red suit giving presents to children, because it is. Christ was a gift to the lost souls of this planet, a cure for the spiritually diseased and undeserving. England's Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas of days of yore, took it upon himself to give out of his own pocket to those in need just as God had given to him. You don't have to believe in Santa Claus, speaking to all faiths now; you can blame his myth for ruining what some people count a myth anyways, but don't discredit either of the men that are the definition of our modern idea of Christmas. Christmas is a time of setting ourselves aside to focus on the needs of others, and giving to them from our hearts. Dr. Marshall Edwards, currently of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, once said that Jesus exemplified the perfect gift. He reflected both the supreme needs of the recipient, as well as the ultimate desire within the heart of the Giver. Give this Christmas because it is in your heart to do so. Don't do it not to feel guilty, don't do it because tradition mandates you must. Give because you love and you can't not do either.

Love someone this Christmas, and let them know that you love them. Know that you wouldn't be reading this now if I wasn't at least moderately fond of you. ;)
At any rate, I'll step down from my pulpit now, with apologies. It's December 23rd, and tonite we're having Spaghetti Arkansanese at my Grandmother's new house atop the hill. We'll return there tomorrow evening for gifts and our more 'traditional' Christmas dinner. Christmas dinner around our place isn't Christmas dinner until at least 6 people have been addressed with someone else's name, till my grandmother has brought out the traditional ham and spinach quiche (a perennial rural Arkansas favourite... ô¿ô...), homemade guacamole, and a ruthless dosage of sarcasm. I do love our family recipes. Northwest Arkansas boasts North America's oldest Italian Immigrant settlement, Tontitown (where I work, actually), and as such we have a strong Italian cuisine bent, but it's not Italian food as you'd find in the motherland. Usually, our spaghetti comes with a massive heap of deep fried chicken atop it. We are the only family I know of whose Christmas dinner primarily features a quiche. I am proud of that. My aunt's husband smokes up an amazing briscuit, my uncle brings the most amazing, heart-burning pico de gallo (salsa) you can imagine, my mom makes guacamole, and my grandmother dices up chicken for chicken salad sandwiches. My apologies to the vegetarians and vegans among you, but I am now drooling, and am off to dinner.

Happy Christmas!

Lathered

As my time in Europe was winding down, most everyone would ask what I missed most about the States, and was looking forward to returning to. My standard answer was 'the people. Same as I miss most about Europe when in the States, and what I look forward to when I finally make it south to Australia-- the people I know there. Places don't vary all that much. Cities are cities, and John Deere dealerships abound globally, and you can pretty well assume that a grocery store will have all of the same wares as any other grocery store. But it's the people that make a place.'

I still feel that way, but at some point or another while in England, I did realise one thing that I am now very glad to have returned stateside to: American-sized showers. I can actually wash my feet and back again.

I still don't know where home is (back on momma's sofa again, hopefully for a much shorter duration than last time...), but I look forward to the day where I am some place of my own that I'm able to walk around barefoot, dance naked, and sing or make other strange vocal broadcasts to suit myself. Locale isn't the most pertinent question, though. Location will follow other qualifications, such as why, and who with.

So what do I miss most about Europe? Other than the folks? The way English house windows are made, local accents, doner kebabs, public transit, smart cars, German Christmas markets, wall mount hot water heaters. Last year, I missed the smell of Imperial Leather soap. This year, I brought home half a dozen bars and a bottle of shower gel. I started in on the latter last nite, and it is phenomenal. That's one problem solved then... now if I could just import some One...

There are other things that it's good to get back to, and I've been trying to list them, but I can't quite recall them all. American sized trucks join the ranks with our gargantuan showers. We got a new trio of trucks in here at the shop and there's an incredibly sexy Ford F-250 3/4 ton 4x4 out in the parking lot that's been distracting me from my daily duties for hours now...

It's nice to be back where I know my way around. I can once again give directions that include such phrases as "next to where such-and-such usedtowas..." or "down past the old McKim place" and "this side of the 68 east intersection" or "Well, you know where my uncle Larry's place is..."

I'm certain there's other things (Root Beer, little hole-in-the-wall Mexican joints-Taquerias-, and my dog, Cotton), but as I'm actually clocked in and supposed to be working--

Ham Sandwich Mentality

*Pictures forthcoming...dang stinking dial-up connection at home isn't doing so well... it's a might sick. I'd post some pictures now, but I'm at work (back at John Deere, temporarily, doing end-of-year inventory), and posting in a hurry.

Just a passing thought.

I don't know whatever became of Blake Pianalto. It seems he'd been dating one of the Isaac twins and was perhaps slated to marry her, but I never heard for certain. In either case, Blake was a good dude, but we weren't exceptionally close. The only thing I really remember about him was a short speech he made one day in our Bowling Class. (Yep, that's right, in Grade 12, I took a semester long class on bowling. Twas grand.) He'd recently broken up with his girlfriend, and when we asked why, he gave us the same excuse he'd given her. To wit:

"It's not that I don't like her. It's just that I've had enough of her. I like ham sandwiches, but if I ate one every day out of 30, I wouldn't want any more."

Profound. I would, of course, hate to be on the receiving end of that argument, and I'm certain she was far from mollified, but it got him out of a relationship.

I've never felt the need to attach this philosophy to any particular person whom I've had a relationship with, but the principle makes a great deal of sense to me, and my supervisor Todd, out here at John Deere. The job at this dealership that I perform isn't exceptionally tough. The negative side of that is that it's not always exceptionally challenging. Sometimes that's nice, at others it's tedious. I do enjoy it, to some extent (this IS, after all, the third different time I've been employed here.) I just get bored. But that goes for most anything in my life: I get too satisfied. I need a constant inflow of something different, new, changing: fresh water in the pond, so to speak.

I burn out quickly. I can get excited about most anything, and put all my energy into it-- the last week back here at the Deere Dealership has been fun, but I know it'll wear off-- but few things have sticking power. As my profile says, 'ever dissatisfied, seeking, and searching.'

I actually ate only ham sandwiches my first few months back in the States this year: I was on the nearest thing to a health food kick as I've ever experienced (and low on cash) so for lunch every day I made sandwiches of whole grain bread, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, organic cheese and sliced meat. Every day. For months. I've now not eaten a sandwich in about 5 months.

It's a bit of a joke with Todd and I, that I'll just stick around and do whatever until I'm bored, then I'll race off for whatever excitement I can conceive of, till that or my wallet wears thin, then I'll start over. And yeah, it's kind of funny, and it makes for a good story, but... At times it feels less like life but verisimilitude of it...

Any rate, the quest continues. Further On.

Ground Regained

Howdy howdy from old Northwest Arkansas. I've thought endlessly over the last 3 days of what all brilliant thoughts I was going to plop onto here at the first instant, but I'm going to have to wait for the second instant... short on time as of yet, no pictures loaded, people to catch up with...

Any rate, just had to get on and let everyone know that, regardless of the low oil pressure reading on the 767 (why the CRAP they felt the need to tell us this as we left the ground embarking on a 10 HOUR TRANSATLANTIC flight, I cannot fathom, but thanks...), we did manage to drop out of the sky only on schedule and towards a proper landing strip.

If you're not currently in NWA, be you in Edinburgh, Dubai, or Houston, I miss you.

Lines from the Second-to-last house in Greenock

For those of you infamiliar with the second-to-last house in Greenock, it is the home of my friend Lori from the U of Ark days, and her husband Scott. (For further investigation, see www.scottandlori.co.uk -- sorry, I still haven't figured out this dadblasted link thing) I've been in Scotland now for about 60 hours, and the weather, and locals, have been phenomenal. For those concerned, though I did spend a full 48 hours in Edinburgh, I missed the castle. Too much else to do, too much to gain the gate, monetarily. I did get my own private tour about the old city, from my new friend Katie. She's a volunteer at the Royal Scotland Museum, was doing a survey of museum visitors, and we struck up a conversation. One geek finds another...

But, as to the time at hand, I am in Greenock now, which is west of Glasgow a wee bit, where Lori and Scott have organised a house party for the evening, and I have voluntarily stepped forward to cook all of their Scottish friends a good ol' pot of chili con carne (and what else would I?). I think I've averaged about a pot every 10 days, but as I've yet to make it for the exact same group twice, all's well. Lori has described me to the locals here whom I'll meet in the next day or two as her 'chicken farming friend from home in Arkansas,' and I believe it's caused her some angst and warying concern to discover that that qualificaion is one I no longer hold. I do still like to introduce myself as Farmer Brown, but no, I don't raise chickens by the thousand any longer. That train has sailed...

Tomorrow, after church (during which, I've been told, Lori has already volunteered my services as a secondary Sunday school teacher) we're going to Scott's folks for lunch. Haggis.

So any rate, I'm here thru Monday, then down to Nottingham for the Frisbee team Christmas social monday night, German Christmas market on Tuesday (it began November 25, the day after I left for Bath. Consequently, I've already missed out on 2+ weeks of potential bratwurst consumption... arrrrgh.), then we'll have a Chrismtas party at either 49 Claude (my former residence in Notts), or 100A Montpelier (Juan, Giuliana, and Alex' current abode in the same), featuring a simmering pot of Ye Olde Classic Jeffro Chili con Carne.

And here's today's bit of wisdom, as was penned round about a month ago, the day Celine and I went to Cannes while in Cote d'Azur:

Monday, November 13th
For as much as things change between continents, it truly is fascinating how much they stay the same- particularly if you pay attention to the children. The day of the harvest festival in Navis, Austria, I saw a bunch of 8 year old boys running, with a bucket, determined delight, and anticipation, over to the fountain in the town centre. I never saw who they soaked with it, but I'm certain it was one of them's sister. Boys and their mischeif are simply universal, insuppressive, and indisguisable. It was the sort of thing Matt Lockard, Adam Cole, and I would've plotted against Adam's older sisters. Or Kathy Shilling.

I was on a beach in Cannes France today. It wasn't a nude beach, though plenty of people who shouldn't've been were near enough. I did see a pair of naked children, probably aged 3 and 4, run down to the water's edge in unbridled glee. The younger one, the boy, in front, ran in up to just over his ankles, stopped, put his hands on his hips, and considered. He was going to stand there and pee in That Water, Outside, in Public, and he was Looking Forward To It.

That was me, twenty years ago. Or, twenty minutes previous, had I not found a public toilet when I did. No, things aren't all that different. Latitude and longitude are, after all, creations of man. Language, infrastructure, and mealtimes are as well, and thus distinctively fabricated, but the species that came up with them isn't quite so diverse. Not, at least, when we're standing naked on the sea shore.

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

For the Shamrockers...

I checked into a Temple Bar hostel in Dublin
only to discover that the toilet floor was bubblin,'
the kitchen hall was crap, all the plates in need of scrubbin,'
and when they told me they had no lockers,
I began to fret of having chosen Shamrockers.

But then I met Tim, and he's a hella nice guy,
and Jana, whose mind works better when dry,
Curly-headed Katie- who's on the hunt for local guys.
And her partner in crime is a girl named Maree,
who can't pick up when her hairs gone curly.

They sit in the back with a cutie named Hayley
and crack jokes on Dean's consumption of Bailey's.
And Lauren hops off the bus (what's this one? a Healy?)
in the stormy, soggy, home of Paddy,
snapping pictures with Rohan and Matty.

And I sit here and smile when I survey your faces
and wish you the best when you get to your places.
I hope in your memories I've left my own traces
and perhaps if some song ever tickles your ear,
you'll remember Shamrocking with old Jeff John Deere.

'Cause I'd hate if Amy forget that first cider,
or the spectacular sights we all witnessed beside her.
And Jess, who's perhaps the tours' quietmost rider
will somewhere in her mental files save
fond memories of Erin, Becca and Dave.

And don't forget Tricia, who's hell on the clutch,
who for all the banter, don't hate ye too much.
And Karen's good for the local histories, and such,
while Brad and Mick are up for a walk and a beer,
be it in Sydney, Helvetia, Glasgow, or here.

Forget ye not Kathryn, who causes no stir
reading her book with Helena predictably sitting next to her.
Sandie, by the way, has a great sense of humour;
Avery's one who's gifted for song,
And I'm dang awful glad you've all come along.

But as I stand in my spotlight and guess at your thoughts
I worry if I've behaved every day as I ought,
and wonder if we'll ever meet again elsewhere, or not.
I can only hope that if you're ever around,
you'd kindly drop in and stay with ol' Jeffro Brown.

Cheers to ye all. And here's one last pub tune...
And since it falls into my lot, that I should rise and you should not
I gently rise and softly call, "Goodnight and joy be to you all!"
So fill to me the Parting Glass and drink a health whate'er befall,
then gently rise and softly call, "Goodnight and joy be to you all!!"

I wish you all well, and I certainly hope to hear from you in future. My sincerest apologies if I misspelled your names, or if you didn't want your "What-happens-on-Shamrocker-stays-on-Shamrocker" reputations put in internationally accessible text.
Ooops. ;)

Those of you whom I wasn't able to properly say good-bye to this morning, I sincerely apologise. It was all a bit flustering, and if you haven't realised already, when you're trekking round with a pack, it feels like you spend more time saying good-bye than actually enjoying other people's company. Rest completely satisfied that I've enjoyed yours this week, and wish I could've had both more time with you, and more time to say fareyewell. I say that birds of a feather do not, in fact, flock together. They collide in midair. That being the case, I look forward to seeing you next time my head's in the clouds... Meanwhile, Further On.

All my love,
jeff

Shamrockin'

Well, howdy from Bath, southwest England. I and my friend Harp have come down from Nottingham to visit our friend Angela for the weekend, and tomorrow I fly over to Dublin, Ireland, where I'm taking a tour for the next week. I know that Irish blokes probably don't actually all sit around in pubs of an evening and sing all the great Irish pubtunes like 'Wearing of the Green,' 'Black Velvet Band,' and 'Johnny I hardly Knew Ye,' but I'm hoping anyways...

Next Sunday, I'll head towards the north coast to Londonderry, stay a night and head out to the Giant's Causeway, then spend the next 2 nites in Belfast, flying to Edinburgh, Scotland on the Wednesday of that week, staying there 2 nites before taking the train to Glasgow and meeting up with my friend Lori from the University of Arkansas, and her Scottish husband, Scott.

I'll be back in Nottinghamshire on Monday the 11th, just in time for the frisbee Christmas social, spending that night and the following with my friends Juan, Giuliana, and Alexis again, then flying home to Arkansas that Wednesday.

I say all of this because I don't know when I'll be able to post next, and the previous entry was after all a downer.

Any rate, drop me a line...
jeffro

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

Penance

°For a viewer and reader friendly version, skip to the last 4 lines. I know I can be too wordy for some people at times...°

I mention in the column at right (--->) that through self-reflection and the helpful criticism of others, that I have become aware of my worrisome case of self-absorption.

In the 3 months since I typed that into my profile, I haven't improved much. Hence the following paragraphs.

If I've hurt you, I'm sorry. If it were by words or actions or a combination of both, I apologise. I've been told from multiple angles, multiple sources, and in multiple states of emotional concern, that something I have said or done has led to your unwanted sadness.

I offer no excuses, and I do not intend to list my sins here in this format, but I do know that some of my behavior towards others is perhaps inexcusable, and that for someone who professes to love people so much as I do, I've done little to prove it.

I do realise that the few people I wish most to see this public confession of guilt have already reached a point that they no longer prefer to read or hear a word from me, and that those of you reading this perhaps have no idea what I'm talking about. That being the case, I'll not continue this saddened reflection of my actions.

Just believe that my posting these words here is intended to express my concern over the damages I have caused, and know that I am willing to make repairs as needed.

Or, to say all of that a little less like myself, and more easily understandable:
I've been a jerk. I know it. I'm sorry, and I want more than anything else, to make things right.

Heroes in a Half Shell...

Well, Friday night saw the annual house party at 236 Queens Road, Beeston, home of my friend James King (JK, Jake) and his housemate Fergus (here pictured as Raphael and Leonardo, respectively). The fourth of our bunch, Michaelangelo, was portrayed by Fergus' sister, Amelia (Amy).

The theme for the evening was cartoon characters (quite often, British parties seem to feature fancy dress costumes, and are usually themed), and the best costume present was a guy who created his own costume of Mr. Incredible, from the recent Pixar (I believe) feature length film.

The evening featured funnels, a yard glass, frisbee vodka jelly races, and a barbecue manned by yours truly. I spent teh earlier part of the day creating some homemade barbecue sauces for the occasion, which were well received.

Any rate, it's been a fun week in Nottingham, and I hope your respective corners of the world have been equally enjoyable for you lately.

Cheers for now. Remember, life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.