2 Years On

Howdy.


Been awhile, ain't it? In the blip between this post and the one below it, my wife and I have gotten pregnant twice, and now have 2 healthy, amply-lunged children. Perhaps you can ascertain why I've been a bit retiscent.


But professionals don't apologize, so, preparatorially aspirational, I'll not either.


Instead, merely as a matter of getting the old literary cogs oiled again, I'll tell you about my favourite bandana. If I had the time and skill, I'd scan it in as a photo and utilise it for the wallpaper of this particular bit of text. I have neither, but, again, not apologizing. We all have to learn to cope sometimes, and sometimes coping means lowering expectations. Remind me sometime to tell you the joys and benefits of lowered expectations.


My favourite bandana is red (tho, of course, it so easily could've been blue) and paisley-patterned. It looks like most of the other ones I've got crammed in the bandana basket, until you unfold it and see the oilstains obtained while doing emergency maintenance on my 78 Volkswagen Rabbit.

You'd have to check with my navigating Hobbit as to when this was; it could've been during KFH in June '06, which seems most likely, but,being June, was a bit early on in the year. I say this because I know the next time I saw the rag was when, at the late-August demolition derby of whatever year is in question, the Hobbit and I were sharing a barbecued turkey leg (to be followed by a funnel cake, obviously), and his reply to the query ,"Where'd you get the bandana you've wrapped this here turkey leg in?" was "Out of the rabbit's trunk, in that upside-down frisbee." If it had been washed, I certainly hadn't done it.

It has, of course, been washed now, frequently even, but the turkey fat and valvoline synthetic still shine dully proud.

Any rate, Ill be in touch.

A Bit of Sense, Unexpectedly...

I have, you may or may not know, an absurd affinity for tractors. Especially old ones. Particularly old ones with the name 'Massey' on them. When I was a kid, my grandfather had two tractors. A 1963 Massey Ferguson 35 Diesel, and a late 70s Massey Ferguson 265. My first hat was red mesh with an 'MF' logo patch on the front that he'd been given when he bought the 265. Somewhere there is, or was, in existence a polaroid snapshot of me, two years old and shirtless, sitting on the driver's seat of that tractor, wearing massive plastic sunglasses, because it was 1984 and I was 2 and such seemed cool to me, and a blue bandana around my neck because I had a slight drooling problem. I remember riding on the 265's rear fenders, flying down the road from our house to the cattle pasture, much to my mother's consternation.

For a few years, my grandfather owned a late '40s John Deere Model A Tricycle (tricycle referring to the front wheel set up, not the size of the machine). My uncle Moe had a 1970s John Deere. The 265 was eventually traded for a big 1594 Case made in the mid-80s, the 35 sold on and replaced by a Massey Ferguson 245. It was this one that I always worked with around the farm. The Case, in its turn, was traded for a John Deere 5300, which he still has, along with the 245, another 1963 MF 35 (bought together with the previous one, this was his dad's, my great-grandfather's, and my wife and I left our marriage blessing riding this machine a few months ago). Just for fun, my grandfather's also bought a 1956 John Deere 320, and a 1959 JD 630.

Between the 2 of us, we've given up on buying books about tractors (they are available, and regular sellers at all the best book shops, don't laugh), because we tend to have compounded more knowledge than even the books that are erroneously titled as 'complete.' We like tractors. He has a model collection of about 50 1/16 scale tractors; I have about 80.

That's because I went to work for John Deere, and all of a sudden, model collecting got easier. Consequently, most of mine are green, and I can quote John Deere company history as if it were my own. Yes, I agree, it is sick.

When I interviewed for the position at our local John Deere Dealership, the man who went on to become my boss said, "Well, you're certainly qualified, but I've got to ask, Why do you WANT the job?" Because, at the time, I'd just completed my Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing. I want to be an author, after all. Going to work selling repair parts for broken down John Deere tractors and implements isn't particularly en route to publication.

You wouldn't think.

Such was the conversation my wife and I were having about 6 weeks ago, as I was reading one of my monthly tractor magazines (there are more published than you might expect.) Her exact words were, "It's too bad you can't find a position writing about tractors. That would sort everything out." Indeed it would, but I'd already tried contacting my favourite publications, and no one was hiring. I am actually, because I'm anal, proofreading, post-publication, an alleged 'Complete Encyclopedia of Farm Tractors,' because it isn't. So far, I've found 19 brands that have been left out, and the wording throughout is horrendous. I'm correcting it in red pen and posting it back to the publisher. I know, I know, I'm sick.

When, lo and behold, jumped off the page an advertisement for this year’s Guild of Agricultural Journalists/John Deere Training Award-- a week-long, intensive Journalism Course run by a company I'm quite familiar with, training and qualifying only 10 souls per year for the hitherto unattainable table land of farming publication. I duly applied, and was notified last week of my acceptance to the course, much to mine and Katie's elation. I'll take the train down to Nottingham, of all places, in just under 2 weeks, where I'll spend the first half of the course, before being sent out over the latter half on an actual assignment. This means, theoretically, that in less than a month, I should actually be a published writer.

So, why Should an aspiring author apply for a job selling tractor parts? I've no idea. It's just what I wanted to do. All roads have their strange winds and bends...

Recommendations for Restless Feet

Well, it seemed strange to carry on a dialogue with ol' JW in the comments page on the previous post, in the event we either of us said something serendipitous that anyone else might benefit from, so, here's the answer I was going to give him:

Thuggery. Two G's.

But, more importantly, as to wherever to wander and wherever to roam, be it elegant or humble, as you're searching for home...

I love the UK. Scotland, obviously, has won me over (due in part to the efforts and emotions of one particular soul), but there's still enough black porter in my blood to feel a commonality whenever I hear genuine Irish music, or see a camera pan across the cliffs and fields of Eirann. The British Isles truly are gorgeous. If you ever find yourself on the northern side of the big one, call me...

I once hiked through the Austrian Alps from Innsbruck, heading towards Brenner Pass/Brenero, Italia. I didn't make it. I got 40% of the way there and crashed at a little place that I'm not even going to mention the name of, lest enough people read this to make it a tourist spot and ruin its gentle beauty. You can ask how to get there, and if I think you'll value the place enough, I'll tell ye. Alternately, look at a map of central Europe. Find Innsbruck, Austria (near the Swiss and Italian borders), then find Brenner Pass/Brenero, ON the Italian border, and draw a little arc through any of the places about 2/5 of the way from Innsbruck heading south. Any of them should be fine. Let me know which you pick.

The Balkan States, southeastern Europe, are gorgeous, and generally warmer than my locale. Montenegro, the Jewel of the Adriatic, is still near the top of my list of places to discover. Slovakia, though all I saw of it was Bratislava-- ignore the movie Hostel entirely-- was a genuinely friendly place, and realllllly cheap, as of a year and a half ago. Most of southeastern Europe has not adopted the Euro yet, and the exchange rates are phenomenal. All of a sudden, eating out became an affordable option again. There's a little cafe in Budapest, Hungary that I still have a receipt for that do a red lentil and pork shoulder stew that could make the trip worthwhile on its own.

If you've done Europe, try Thailand. I read in the paper about 3 years ago (so, figure in demand and inflation) that for about 50 bucks (£25), an elephant could be hired for a private tour of the jungles of Northern Thailand. For three days you just meander through, eating with the villagers and forest nomads that don't belong to any particular nation, merely the soil and the trees you'll find them amongst. Take some stomach capsules along, just in case.

If you're in North America, there's already enough to see. At this point, I've only been to 30 US states- all of those east of the Mississippi save Wisconsin and Michigan. The Canadian Rockies, particularly the Banff area, north of Montana, I believe, is apparently gorgeous beyond description. Be that as it may, I prefer the Appalachians, and the eastern side of the continent. This past summer I finally got to fulfill the dream of taking a road trip thru the Adirondacks, and it was everything I could've hoped for. I only wish I'd had more time. The same can be said for Maine, but if you're thinking of going there, contact SOMEONE in the state first and ask what pest season they're in the middle of, before you go. On that same trip, I passed through Boston about Breakfast time, and, wanting to support the local economy, was in search of a good mom-and-pop shop to dine in, but couldn't find one. As I was stuck in traffic, I just looked for a truck that appeared to belong to a working man-- the kind of feller that pours concrete, builds cabinets, or demolishes things. I found one almost immediately, and hollered thru our open windows and four lanes of traffic what I was after, and he responded, "Get in behind me by the next light-- I'll take you exactly where you want to go, and it'll be right near the interstate when you're done." It was a meandering path to find the place, but sure enough, there was a little cafe that still looked like it did when it was built during Prohibition, run by an immigrant Greek and his wife, who were some of the friendliest folk I've met, save the chap that introduced me to them. I wanted, on that trip, to cross over into Canada and see Prince Edward Island-- also top of the list-- but alas, as always, there wasn't enough time.

I still recommend the Great American Road Trip as one of the greatest adventures to be had. Pick some obscure festival or occurrence and take the most extensive, least time-efficient route to get there. (Katie and I went to the National Farm Toy Show in Iowa last November, and turned a 9 hour drive each way into about 30 hours driving. We recommend Traer, Iowa for those looking for the quintessential American small town, and the Pizza Ranch in Independence, Iowa. Have 'The Prairie'.)

Drive the Blue Ridge Parkway, particularly around Boone, NC. I think that's about mile marker 300, give or take a dozen. Be sure and drive over the Linnville Falls (or Gorge?) Viaduct around Grandfather Mountain. Go to the visitors' center and be impressed by the magnitude over what technology just allowed you to do.

Find a local swimming hole and go skinny dipping at sunset. Heck, this is March. It's windy. Fly a kite. Eat local. Join a harvesting circuit. I still wish I'd done that when I had the chance.

Go outside and do something. On purpose.
Jake, come visit.
Love y'all.
Jeffro

Reflections of a Restless Mind

I can go to the pub of an evening and have 2 pints (that's a quart, one quarter of a gallon) of 5.5% alcohol content Cider, beautiful cider, and not feel remotely tipsy.

Should I choose to drink something a bit more refined, 2 glasses of red wine, quaffed quickly enough, will make me smile more than normal, from about halfway through the second glass. To be fair, the only time this has happened, Katie and I were out with her folks, and I'd been drinking too slowly and had to take down the second glass lightning quick as we were heading out.

I had 12 ounces (12 freaking ounces! that's 3/4 of a pint) of coffee, with milk, at 3.30 yesterday afternoon. 12.5 hours later, it's 5 a.m. and I haven't yet been to sleep, save for maybe 2 or 3 imperceptible dozes.

Freaking Crap.

While we're on the subject of my wonderful metabolic processes, we had orange sweet peppers (capsicums) in our dinner tonite. I love the taste of peppers. Fried, grilled, with onions and meat or on their own with other veg, I love peppers. My stomach and I disagree harshly on this point. Sometime late, late today, a fair 24 hours after eating them, the lower half of my torso will raise its angry little argument. 24 hours.

If I go for an exhausting bike ride, or go work out at the gym (don't laugh, there was a time), at any point on any given day, I will feel fine the next day. Not a trace of soreness. I feel it the day after the day after though, and usually with accrued interest.

And, to top it all off, ridiculous me, I can be happier than any one person has right to be, and say nothing about it, but give me 30 seconds of discomfort, and I'll feel a desperately urgent need to broadcast it to the masses...

Y'all have a great day.
Multiple drowsy smiles,
Jeffro

This is this post's Second Title

I write a poem every December. It's not a conscious thing, or it hadn't been up till now-- I'd given up on poetry while at the University of Arkansas, in the Creative Writing program, upon the advice of one of my instructors that pursuing poetry might deprive my significantly stronger prose talents from due attention. I wasn't going to make it as a poet, in other words. Not that I'm claiming any fortune from any other sort of writing...

Any rate, I tend to get random bursts of poetic inspiration here and there, but it seems that I only ever write any worth repeating, or even completing, in the month of December. So, having not written poetry in over 2 years, I wrote a bit of verse of near epic proportions (by my own standards) in December of '05 about my travelling companions with Topdeck Tours, mostly Australian, whom I travelled most of western Europe with in the course of 3 weeks. I repeated the feat to a lesser degree in December of '06 after skipping around the Republic of Ireland for a week with a different busload of Aussies, and I think I posted this one last year. Imagine my surprise then when I felt an undeniable urge for verse about 6 weeks ago. I should've posted this then, when it was still fresh, but...well...didn't. I'm like that, unfortunately.

*as yet untitled* (because everything I come up with sounds pretentious)

There's a closet where I like to sit
a place of calm and spectral visits.
Once inside, on one to three I wait,
depending on the opening of the gate.
David Bowie's always the first,
and looking 30 years younger, none-the-worst--
Robert Deniro stretches in relaxation;
They're surprisingly jovial in our visitations.
But lastly, thirdly, sometimes, a small jock
whose brushed up talent and bedeckled smock
enable entirely all my mingled sensations.

We talk of geography, travel, effects of beer--
whether that's the new cinnamon candle I hear,
(at which, frowning, the young boy's doubts are said-
he whose war stories hang forever overhead).
Avoiding the storm, the litte black dour dowager
weaves past thistles and into the shower.
I stand, satisfied, from our far-flung debate,
and pass my own way out of the gate.
But there they three stay until I return
and we resume the object that has been adjourned
to gladly unsling any unwanted weight.

******

If you're looking for sense, you'll probably come up dry. Katie knows what I'm writing about, and my cousin Cody might, by accident, without realising it...

Y'all have a great day.
-and rememember-
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.

PS- I never claimed to be a GOOD poet...

Public Service Announcement

First, a couple of pictures:



This was taken just after our marriage ceremony at the Lothian Chamber (government office in Edinburgh), walking down the Royal Mile, the old high street of Edinburgh, towards the John Knox house and Scottish Storytelling Museum, wherein we had our reception. You may not be able to see too well, but Katie's boots are of the same tartan as my kilt: the Galbraith, that of her mother's family.



And this is us at home a day or so later, recovering.

Any rate, as hinted above, your Public Service Announcement for 13 January, 2008:

The United Kingdom Highway Code Number 206 states:

Drive carefully and slowly when [among other things] turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis mine].

I offer up this bit of British legalia in response to an occasion underwent this evening by my self and spouse.

After an evening out with some friends, my poorly sighted self was escorting home my legally documented visually impaired, registered partly-sighted wife, when we were ignored crossing a road junction by first a middle-aged man in a large, dark blue or green estate (station wagon), and then quite nearly taken out by his daughter, following along in her silver Renault. She may've indicated she was turning into the lane we were currently navigating the exact middle of, but as her speed had not been decreased for the maneuver, we didn't have time to notice. I'd assumed she would stop and give us the right of way, and was quite surprised when I realised she had no inclination of the sort. Katie didn't see her until the car's headlights were reflecting off my glasses and the neat little nylon bits on my shoes, at which point, the vehicle was so close, that I swung the bag I was carrying out of the way, and kicked my forward leg up as a very meager means of defense. Even my enormous shoes wouldn't've stood up to the momentum hurtling towards us.

We were missed, but only just, and the look of angry incredulity on part of the driver was almost laughable. I was still in something akin to shock, having never been mown down by a Renault Clio 1.8 before, a block later, when a vaguely familiar estate wagon pulled in front of us blowing his horn. I asked if we could help, and he immediately launched into an attack of my assault on the car that had been following him (no relationship mentioned as yet). At this point, I let Katie, who has memorised statute 206, take over. He argued his point, saying it was WE who needed to go home and read the highway codes, and eventually drove off in a self-righteous, lower class huff. We'd scarcely recovered that disagreement when the silver Clio pulled up and demanded "Did my dad stop and talk to you? Am I going to get an apology?" which brought a laugh out of myself, leading her to recant her version of her father's irate and insulted, if somehow less intelligent, argument. Katie again assumed control of the inquest, stating clearly from 206. This was met by an ill-chosen expletive, which we laughed at, far worsening the mood of our automotive assailant, who drove off in a similar rage.

So, lest you have any similar incidents, let me state once more, British Highway Code 206: Drive carefully and slowly when turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis, again, mine].

On lighter notes:

My wife asks I issue a further statement related to the anecdote recorded above, that all Scottish women are not so ill-bred as to hurl expletives thru lowered car windows at wronged and innocent pedestrians. Quite a lot of them, my favourite one included, are outstanding, honourable members of society.

Even lighterly, a specific howdy to my buddy WillieJake- d'ye know that it was 2 years ago today, if not yesterday, that we met in a hostel in Barcelona? You're response to "Where're y'all from?" ("Florrrrda") is still one of the sweetest greetings my ears've ever heard.

The other night, Katie and I were watching a recorded live set by one of our favourite English comedians, Bill Bailey (standard guest on "Never Mind the Buzzcocks", starred as 'Manny' in the BBC comedy series 'Black Books.). One of his bits included picking on books and television shows with titles along the lines of "1,000 Things or Places to See or Do Before You Die"... not so much as while you're alive, but certainly BEFORE you die. His point was that perhaps we're telling time in the wrong direction.

Which, as you might suspect of me with my soapbox blogging style, got me to thinking...

Great things tend to happen, it seems to me, while you're purposely living, not so much as when in the expectation of demise. You'll be happier when you're trying to be, than when you're worrying about your personal stopwatch.

One of the greatest memories of our married life thus far for Katie and I occurred at our wedding reception, about 7 hours into marital bliss. The meal had been eaten, a great many of the guests had already left, and those still present were clumped in small groups exchanging memories and exaggerations, or playing dominoes. We had an iPod linked into the cafe's sound system, and the song currently playing dawned on the whole group in the sort of way that 19 or 20 people would all notice a fresh breeze-- not simultaneous, but nearly. And, one by one, almost the entire room began singing together to Roger Miller's "King of the Road." Roger was my grandmother's cousin, so it's always been a favourite of my family, it's certainly a favourite of Katie and hers, and was apparently known to all but about 4% of our wedding party. What was more startling was the way we all reacted to the sight of each other singing unashamedly outloud-- we kept on. This shall remain one of the greatest moments of my life.

Ever read Thoreaus's 'Walden'?
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear..." It's most well known quote is his conclusion that "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. "

The general, compliant public tend to be resigned (Thoreau also expounds against resignation in the above passage) to whatever is, and however they perceive it, and such is as reality shall definitely be. Thoreau's great fear is that he, or anyone else, might try to eke out an existence, without a life being involved. That we might die oblivious to anything greater than the immediate, and immediately satisfactory. Think, do, experience. (To tie this vein, albeit weakly, to the original gripe of this post, If you don't take the time to learn the law, you'll convince yourself what it ought to be and absolve yourself of any mistakes).

So, to conclue this inadverent sermon: don't worry about what you have to do BEFORE You DIE, I encourage you to seek out ways to prove you are living. I do not have a comprehensive list, either for myself or anyone else, but I will offer a few meager suggestions:

Adopt, don't buy, an animal. Eat exotically. Tickle, or be tickled, senseless. Sing outloud. Loudly. Endulge in sensual pleasures. (Katie's perpetual resolution) Read a book, watch a documentary, learn something. Ride a bike, celebrate an anniversary (of any sort you can conceive), do something.

Y'all have a great week.
Jeffro

Incidentally, if anyone knows how I can widen the text margins, decreasing the girth of the blue columns here ----->
and
<---- over here, so that the body of my post isn't 9 and a half old English furlongs in length, I'd be most grateful.

Post about a sunset without an accompanying photograph...

Hello from Edinburgh, Scotland, where I now reside, with my wife of 2 months, Katie. It's November here (and presumably wherever you are as well), and that means that the days are particularly short. It's 4.30 just now, and if it weren't cloudy and raining, the last pink cries of daylight would be showing over the Georgian roof across the back garden, over my left shoulder. The weather's cold, and damp, so normal, but I understand that it has, in recent days, been warmer than Arkansas. We're getting settled in, finally, and have pretty well unpacked and packed away accordingly all that we brought home with us a week ago. A house that I'd never seen less than a year ago now contains 9 toy tractors-- one of my strange little hobbies-- and four of them are promenading left around the vase of roses here on the desk. I bought a new dress shirt recently with a paisley pattern, to match the textiles about the flat featuring that particular pattern-- Katie's favourite. The kitchen cabinets are chocked full of fresh fruit and veg, peanut butter and jam, and enough chocolate calories to run any electrical needs we could accrue by Christmas. There's a road map of Arkansas in the bathroom, sharing wallspace with a framed collection of Katie's dad's pictures from his service during WWII. We both had eclectic blends to start with, but with the two of us living together, things have only grown more intriguing, from the moment you enter the house...

More later...Happy belated birthday, by the way, to my Dad, and his buddy Dale

Cheers for now
Jeffro

And....We're Back...

It’s been over 2 weeks since I posted last. In case you weren’t counting, but were vaguely curious. No excuses.

It’s not that I haven’t had enough on the brain that might’ve been worth sharing, it’s a matter of figuring out how the devil to express myself, and filtering down to what’s actually worth expressing…

Mom’s best friend, every so often, will ask her for another ‘Jeff story.’ Mom takes it as a compliment, as do I, as I’m sure it’s intended. I’m quirky enough, and forever into something uncommonly sufficient, for retelling. I try to be. As the quote on my posted picture way back in September states, Life is too short to remain unnoticed. (Salvador Dali). I truly believe this. Or, I have in times past. ‘Believe’ means, literally, by life. Whatever you ‘believe’ should be painfully obvious, statements unnecessary, by your life. The way I carry myself daily should indicate that I’m certain my life doesn’t have enough spare time for mundaneity. I prefer to be quirky. I like being strange. Sticking out like a healthy thumb on a sore hand…

Or so I say… I don’t feel that I’ve been upholding my own standards so well in recent weeks. To be fair, though, how many of y’all have camped out in a Chick-Fil-A parking lot?

I have a few different lives. Farmer Brown honestly exists only in memory now. I don’t expect Professor Brown, who was at one point pursuing a Masters in Literature, to resurface again any time soon. Parson Brown has been laid to rest, save for the occasional ranting sermon on here. Jeffro The American Billy Bob John Deere the Backpacker, the Hippy Within, is all but suffocating here in Northwest Arkansas. I’m having multiple identity crises. I went from eating every other meal as and with a vegetarian to residing once again in the Deep [Fried] South. Accustomed as I’d become to walking and taking public transit, and doing my best, transportation wise, for the environment, I’m now once again driving a fire-breathing dragon with an 8.1 litre engine. I’m still living in a backpack, though I’ve been on the same couch nearly a month. The same couch, mind you, that I spent 7 months on in ’06, and 2 months on at an earlier stint this year. I’m awfully stationary for a drifter. I like being able to collect all the worldly possessions I care to keep into a 40-pound maximum weight pack, but I’m vicariously enjoying joint custody of a china tea service housed in Edinburgh, Scotland.

To use a Britishism, I’m a complete nutter.

In Europe, I quite obviously didn't fit any particular theme, fashion or otherwise, beyond 'trekker.' The only thing I felt the need to conceal was my telling accent. I wanted to be a local, and if you've never heard my voice, I've been told that I have a very distinct vocal quality. I never wanted to stick out too much, to be easily labeled-- here or anywhere else. Now, I'm back in the world in which not only clothes make the man, but the vehicle he drives as well. I'm uncomfortable with outward signals, but those I'm already swathed in are precise in their statements about me. The wardrobe I kept in Europe, and prefer at all times, is highly non-committal about my station in life, even my home continent. Every moment of my day today that was spent outside of my parents' house screamed precisely of class definition-- the store I made a few purchases within, the vehicle I showed up to work in, the job itself that I was working at, the clothes I was wearing. Everything spoke volumes.

Tomorrow, I could dress differently, drive the other car, and make a few bucks elsewhere, and be an entirely different person. The day afterwards, I could trade the truck off for a Jeep, throw away all of my non-open-toed shoes, and start from scratch yet again. Now, granted, there are some very precise definitions attached to anyone carrying an orange backpack through the average European train station, but I am pretty comfortable with all of them that I'm familiar with-- good, bad, or otherwise. The classification I receive at home, however, doesn't sit so well, and I doubt it ever will, in any circumstance-- whether I work in a cubicle, atop a tractor, beneath a car jack, in front of a computer, behind a parts counter-- I DO NOT want to be so easily qualified as a ________. It doesn't matter what shape the hole is, I'm one peg that simply didn't come off the lathe so well.

I was described, as a ten year old, as someone who 'marches to his own drummer.' Thank you, Mrs. Crouch. At just under a quarter century, I'm still proving you right.

Further On.

The Eternal Geek

Well, I'd promised something special for Easter, but every time I got started, I felt too heretical, and backed down. Once my thoughts are collected better, I'll put them down as a chapter within a book, or as a book itself, entitled 'Growing Up Baptist'. Keep your eyes open to the NY Times Bestseller list for that one...

Just a quick blurb because it's been over a week...

If I ever realise, as I'm waking up, that I'm dreaming, I do my best to direct all of my foggy mental capacities at storing the dream to write it down once I'm functional enough for that occupation. Today would've been a good day, but just as I realised what tricks my mind was playing, the phone rang, and I was snatched out of a thrilling bit of brain play, and it's a shame, because I was really interested in the final outcome of this morning's dream.

I was doing a crossword...
And it was really tough. I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. But I'm certain that if I'd had another 10 minutes of semi-consciousness, I could've at least gotten the stumping clues written down...

Total geek...

Just a Few Pictures...

Bit of advertising for myself, first...


This was taken in the Victorian Era Skittle alley (bowling lanes)in back of the Sheep's Heid pub in Duddingston, outside Edinburgh. It is Edinburgh's oldest surviving pub, and possibly the oldest in all of Scotland. I had a pint of the house brew (Sheep's Heid), and it was probably the most bitter beer I'd ever tasted. Fortunately, I had some scones in my pack from Katie's mom that I used to diffuse the taste... To my knowledge, no one saw my little advert that I chalked up on the score board and subsequently visited the page... O well...


This is the newest addition to Canterbury cathedral. On site of the oldest diocese in all of the British Isles, Canterbury has been one of the most important religious institutions north of the English Channel for a millenia and a half. The Archbishop of Canterbury alone has the power to crown the British royals. In 1994, an Anglican congress was held there, and to mark the occasion, this medallion was commissioned. I'd forgotten the translation, but fortunately, I got online this morning and found Lilian, my Greek friend, was on, and she informed me that it says "The Truth Will Set You Free." If you don't know, that's taken from the New Testament, the book of John, Chapter 8, verse 32.


And this is my luggage, Stateside. The smaller, yellow bag is pretty well as it was when I got off the plane. The guitar is in its case. Everything else you see was in that orange bag, including, though not limited to: 1 jar raspberry jam, 1 pewter tea service, 6 pint glasses (one from the oldest pub in Scotland, one from the oldest pub in England- thanks to Alex for the help on that), all 5 t-shirts, extra pair of trousers (corduroy), 8 pair of wool socks (mostly wrapped around pint glasses), full set of James Herriott's "All Creatures Great and Small", encyclopaedia of British Folklore, 4 quaichs (traditional Gaelic cup of welcome and departure), 1 ship in a bottle, from the first shop in the world (Thanks, Yeny), and the autobiography of Christopher (Robin) Milne.

Greetings, All

And hello from Northwest Arkansas, where I've been reresiding over the last 24 hours. Just a note to say that all of my flights did in fact arrive, even the ones I wasn't on, seemingly, as well as the ones I was on but wasn't supposed to be... more on that later, and pictures to follow...

O ya, Tim, Allen, Adam, anyone else in resident in Springdale who didn't know I was back already- sorry for the smoke and mirrors-- just a matter of wanting to sneak home under the radar and sleep a few days. No harm intended. And, it saves the hassle of explaining why I am a day late and not on the flight I'd booked if no one knows when the original flight is supposed to be...

cheers for now...

Just in Passing

A view from the east of Edinburgh, looking at the hill known as Arthur's Seat, from the Megabus between Edinburgh and Sheffield.

Today I spent 9 hours, give or take, in transit. At one point, my bus arrived into the town wherein I was to switch buses, but there was no driver for the next leg of the journey. That miniscule detail got overlooked by the company's logistical staff...

Any rate, by the time I got into Sheffield, I was absolutely ragged out. I'd had a few digestive biscuits (wholemeal cookies) with nutella on them for breakfast, and a sip from my water bottle here and there all day, but otherwise I was completely undernourished, and given that I'm about to leave the UK again, I'm under a bit of emotional duress. I got my bag and guitar onto the train and stowed away and dropped down into a seat that faced another pair of seats across a table. Sitting directly across from me was a blonde girl that I would guess to be in her late teens, and between her and the window, a brunette girl somewhere between mine and the blonde's ages. The younger, the blonde, was on the phone with one or the other of her parents, explaining that she'd lost her rail card, and might be getting fined for travelling without a ticket. When she hung up, exasperated with the situation, she and I compared notes: further destinations, travel complications up to that point, current funds available, hunger pains... She then got on the phone with her other parent, and I simply continued the conversation with the brunette, whom we'll call Teresa to protect the innocent.

Teresa, it turned out, had no previous acquaintance with the bubbly young girl next to her, hadn't spoken much with her in the intervening time on the train with her, but was changing at the next stop to head into Nottingham, like myself. I carry a pad of genuine John Deere post-it notes in my backpack, and as we pulled in to Derby, where Teresa and I were alighting, I scribbled a note reading 'Better Luck...Jeff' and put this here web address down, and stuck it on the table in front of the young blonde. We smiled, I grabbed my things, and left the coach.

Teresa and I made it onto our final train, located an empty pair of seats with ample baggage storage, and settled in. 'Oh,' she said, 'before I forget- after you left, the other girl gave me this for you...' I was expecting a note reading 'thanks', but instead, found 3 pound coins in my hand. 'She said it was so you could get a sandwich.' I don't even know this girls name, hadn't actually introduced myself, but I'd mentioned I was hungry, and had all of 75 pence on me. She was very nearly equally broke, and facing a potential fine of well more than the average train ticket, but managed to find enough money to buy me a sandwich.

When I was in France, my friend Celine and I watched the Bill Murray movie 'Broken Flowers', and we both hated it. The only redeeming scene was when Bill's character meets who he thinks might be his son, and tries to non-chalantly buy him a meal. The boy asks why and Murray's answer is classic, and as a backpacker, I really appreciate it: 'I'm just a guy that can tell when a guy looks like he needs a sandwich.'

I was touched, this evening, by this tiny act of overwhelming generosity from a girl who only knows my name because I scribbled it on a sticky note. I don't know your name, but if you happen to be reading this, Thank You.

And Thank You, Teresa, as well. I know I said so on the train, but I really appreciate your open ears and honest prayer(s). Rarely do you meet someone only in passing who genuinely takes an interest in your well-being. You salvaged my day. Thanks.

Biggest Dang Leprechaun This Side of Kilkenny...

When I brush my teeth in the mirror, I look at myself and think 'Ahh, the beard still looks allright...' Then I see pictures of myself and debate my judgment. The hat was earned, for what it's worth, during the local St. Patrick's Day celebrations here in Nottingham. Our celebrating began at noon, when we hit our first pub. After the purchase (and theoretic imbibement) of 4 pints of Guinness, patrons were presented with the hat and the pin on my T'shirt reading 'Ask for me at the bar...' Alex's read 'Tall, Dark and Handsome'. Thus our early start...


This is the greater portion of the 'we' I've been referring to. Left to right are Carlos, Samuel, Ulysses, myself, Alex, Griselda, and Alexis. By this time (9 pm), Juan, Marcos, Melissa, Ana y Pete had all gone home. We left the festivities in the city centre, where the Market Square was specially reopened for the first time since reparations started 18 months ago (though, for all that, the fountain leaks like a sieve...), at about 6, and went to Alexis' (my old house at number 49) and played Uno until we were all too tired to stay awake any longer. Roughly 9 pm, that is...


I was so dogged at this point because I was up at dawn to head down to Beeston to see my friend James off on the early train, then I walked back along the canal to the house, and left for Beeston again 20 minutes later with Juan, Alex, Griselda, and Tung, my Malaysian friend who moved into my old room at number 49, to have breakfast at the Boathouse Cafe at Beeston Marina. We each had a full English breakfast for 4 pounds, and liked it so much, that we (minus Juan) went back again this morning... well... lunch. Any one in or around Nottingham, I'd advise a similar dining experience. Just catch the number 18 bus, or number 20 on Sundays, to the Jolly Anglers pub, then walk south to where Appleton Road takes off to the right, and follow that street to its end at the canal, turn right, and follow the canal past the locks to the marina. Tony, a full-time fitness trainer, runs the place, and is certain to give you a warm welcome.

Any rate... Nottingham today has been a blend of sun, snow, wind, rain, shine, and clouds. I was watching M*A*S*H this morning (Marathon of season 3 on BBC-umpteen), and as the commercials broke, I looked outside to see that the sky was blackened by the clouds carried in on the coming gale, and snow and ice were attacking the house like there was no tomorrow. I checked outside again as the show recommenced, not 6 minutes later, the sky was entirely cloudless. Funny place, this.

It's Mother's Day here in England today, so here's to me mum... Love you, see you in a few weeks...

London, lately

Well, the last post had little response, and I wasn't too impressed with it myself, so it's due time to supersede it, but I have nothing profound to say... Then again, perhaps you don't expect me to, and are just as glad for me to temporarily curtail my efforts...

Any rate, as you may've gathered from the last post, I've headed south (ish)from Edinburgh, to Nottingham, and for the first bit of this week, I went on down again to olde London town for another few days with my friends there. Yeny, from Colombia, is heading out for Dallas next week, and we thought we should play the tourist game around the olde city again before we both take our indeterminate leave of the United Kingdom. I was there for all of 48 hours, and managed to have 2 nice dinners out, passed through the Tate Museum of Modern Art, the UK's tallest escalator, in Angel underground station, climbed the 311 step Monument, and straddled the Prime Meridian, in Greenwich. There were other things (It was a regular whirlwind), but those were some of the big ones, which I plan to illustrate just below...

Y'all have a great week.
jeffro



From Left: Yeny, Basak (From Turkey. This was her going away party, as she flew out a matter of hours later...), Michela and Demis, from Italy, Saida from France, and Angelica, mi solita o solicita o solecita (mi español es muy mal), from Colombia.



Me, after a long day, descending the escalator to the Jubilee line at Angel Underground Station.



The escalator at Angel again, but rotated over 90 degrees. I like the way the lines, light, and reflections look in this shot. The escalator bears its passengers up 30 metres (about 100 feet)!



Yeny and her German friend, Dorothee, working their way down the spiral staircase within the monument that commemorates the 1666 London Fire, that started 202 feet from the Monument's location (interestingly enough, that's how they determined what height to make the Monument. Whether they liked the number 202 and located it at this distance from the origin accordingly, or this just happened to be the only free bit of optional landscaping, I don't know.) They are about a dozen steps down, so there's only another 299 more to go...



I like doing reflection pictures. This is me taking a picture of Yeny and myself in the glass window out of which looks the telescope that defines the Prime Meridian. I am thus standing equally east and west, globally speaking. The gentleman over my left shoulder was apparently quite curious...


It is now 1.50 am, Greenwich Mean Time (so named for the London suburb wherein the above photograph was snapped), and though I would love to be only breathing, and nothing more phsysically, my head cradled in the arm of the couch at the house belonging to Juan, Giuliana, Alex, and Griselda here in Dunkirk, a cleanly sleeved duvet maintaining my body heat, the little, rat-like pet that Juan is hampster-sitting (who has also taken up residence, cage and all, in the sitting room)has gotten up for his daily calisthenics. He's surely rolled out a good mile and a half thus far on that blasted wheel, so the meat should be nice and lean, when I eat him in about another three and a half minutes, or after the next hundred yard dash, depending on how soon the oven's ready...

Dad-dratted, noisy little bugger.

Mmmmmmmmm, hampster...

Perceptions of a Pink Shirt-Wearing, Haircut-needing, Nasty beard-face showing, No Home-Having, Goofball, Son of a Gun...

This picture was taken by Katie recently as she made fun of my dining habits. I'm used to that, get it from Adam and Tim every so often, but at least they don't take pictures of me... Just wanted you to have an idea of who is saying all of the following. That way, in the event I say something disagreeable, you can look at the picture and think, 'Ya well... look at the poor guy...'

I have been told, quite often by Aussies, that I make a good ambassador for my country. 'Jeff, you are the only American I have ever liked.' 'Hella nice guy. Wish there were more fellas like you around.' 'Prost!'

And I have said, more than once since first hearing phrases of this nature, that while abroad, it is my chief ambition to be the one American that everybody likes. Those of you back home, take it easy, don't get heated, but some people simply do not like Americans. I am doing what I can to alleviate that, albeit in small increments. I prefer to be liked anyway, I suppose we all do, but it is important to me to show what percentage of the rest of the globe I come in contact with that Americans are not all arrogant warmongers who despise anything south of the Rio Grande, north of the Great Lakes, or beyond an ocean. This is, unfortunately, the sort of reputation we've earned ourselves.

And I am guilty. It took a bit of adjusting when I first came to England a year and a half ago before I figured out what I could say and how I could act. I remember getting called out at a dinner party for improper fork usage. (I do NOT apologise for that, by the way. Yes, in America we might've oversimplified some traditions--in my house, we had only one fork, one spoon, and one knife apiece, and we DID eat with out hands-- but why overcomplicate something so elemental as transporting food to one's mouth?) I think one of the reasons I got on so well with some of the Australians I met was that they had low expectations of me. What Yanks they had met left them far underimpressed, and, like us, they prefer to cut out unnecessary falderal. I was able to be myself.

And I suppose the Australian angle is the best to address the next point from-- that it truly is a shame that what most Americans know of the rest of the world we have learned from Hollywood, and an industry that survives by sensationalism. I was doing my best impersonation of an Australian accent once, and a girl from Melbourne said, 'Oi! (Or the Aussie equivalent of that Britishism) That's pretty good! Where'd ya pick that up?' I responded that I spent a lot of time in my younger days watching the Crocodile Dundee films, and she was nearly offended. 'That is NOT what Australia is like. There might be a few blokes still around like that, but Australia is not just some big wilderness full of simpletons.'

Fair enough. The movies left me with only a desire to see the continent myself, and most of the folks I've met from there have only fueled the sentiment, but having met some of the locals, and having now seen the third installment, released only about 5 years ago, I can understand why they might be offended. In Crocodile Dundee 3, Mick and his best mate are living in LA, and are amazed, in awe, and aghast at this revolutionary restaurant known as Wendy's. (Those not familiar, this is a very cheap fast food restaurant, with a drive-thru window open till 2 a.m.) Apparently, the blokes from down under have never seen such as this.

Note to Hollywood: Australia does not exist only in the extinct time frame that was the setting of 'The Man from Snowy River' and 'Five Mile Creek.' Ever seen a picture of the Sydney Opera House? Big, crazy, conch shell looking critter? What's LA got? A bridge? Oh, really? Think the rest of the world's never seen one of those?

Pardon me... the soap box expanded without my intentions...

The movie 'Hostel' came out in the States while I was travelling around Europe about a year or so ago, and my friends back home were scared to death that I was going to be hacked to death in my sleep by some non-English speaking native. Set in Bratislava, the capital city of Slovakia, the premise of the movie seemed to be that beautiful Eastern European women seduced young American males, and then relieved them of their vital organs, or some other such unpleasantry, for both their own pleasure and monetary gain. One guy said, 'Man, I will NEVER sleep in a hostel!'

Alternately, you could just avoid prostitutes.

I spent a few days in Bratislava this past fall. It was one of the friendliest cities I've seen. The food and lodgings were affordable, the local Slavic women were in fact, on the whole, gorgeous, and most folks my age were students at the University, studying English, and were, as a rule, very eager to practice their vocabulary with me in the street, and didn't try to lure me into dodgy circumstances.

My Colombian friends get nearly hostile when it comes to Hollywood. Contrary to American, and other nations', film theory, more goes on in Colombia than just the harvest of illegal substances. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's movie 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' allegedly started out in Bogota, but anyone familiar with the locale (I am not, but have been informed), would know that Bogota is in the mountains, has damp and grey weather, and does not, as a rule, feature explosives randomly sounding off. I'm afraid to ask how 'Romancing the Stone' (Which featured an exactly opposite background) was accepted.

It just seems that we are very good at delineating the world: us and them. I remember when studying literature that a basic necessity for any story, perhaps more than the protagonist, the hero, is the antagonist, the force of evil, the metaphorical wall, the plot's chief agent, an 'other' to point fingers at. While I do think this is necessary for a storyline, I would suggest that we be less drastic in our choice of 'others.'

I was thinking about all of this this morning while washing dishes for the housefull of Mexican amigos y amigas that I've come back down to Nottingham to visit. All of their dishes are from the local IKEA-- a retail chain, if you haven't heard of it, that originated in Scandinavia. Denmark, perhaps. Every product they sell comes, seemingly, from crafters in all different corners of the globe, and not merely high output factories in southeast Asia. The drinking glasses are from Italy, the plateware from Turkey. They sell furniture made of real wood, designed, cut, and packaged in and around Northern Europe. Every country is represented, and the products are of a very high quality. And, like Target back home, in a University setting such as this, nearly everyone I know shops at IKEA for something. You can go into almost anyone's house and find something that you're familiar with. Triangulation: immediately, you've got a common point to converse over.

Rather than simply trying to turn the highest profit(though, perhaps they are, I don't know. I am just impressed with what I've seen thus far), IKEA is inadvertently creating links between people. Instead of pointing fingers across theaters and in front of cameras criticizing the differences between cultures, and perhaps shortchanging the person at the end of the barrel, they're doling out fashionable items that everyone can enjoy, at affordable prices.

No, I don't think world peace begins in a department store, and I realise this was both oversimplified and underthought, but thanks for reading anyways.

Today's moral:
...is convoluded, and I didn't plan well enough ahead to know how to stop this flow of thought...

And also, if I sound vain, and proud of myself, as if I actually think I am America's best representative, I apologise. I'm not, I don't, and I spend far too much time with my foot in my mouth, or eating crow, or just generally not thinking of what I might be saying. You may have already come to terms with this fact. I'm trying my best, I promise. Learning through, and despite of, my own semi-latent idiocy, that's me.

Have a great weekend, though. I hope you're well, wherever you got out of bed, or rolled off the couch, this morning. Nottingham has, up until dawn today, been gorgeous. This is my friend Alex, as we were walking around the lake at Wollaton park yesterday.

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...