Living the American Dream: May 2008

Grumpy, the Tool Man Nailer

Entering the sanctuary for Friday night services last night, I was beckoned over by someone I have spoken to, but I'm afraid whose name alludes me.
"Have you got an electric torch?" He asked me.
I pretended to search myself. I looked around. The place was as bright as day, mainly because it doesn't get dark at the moment until 8.30 p.m.
"Er no," I confessed. "Is this the beginning of a joke?"
"No," he laughed. "I've been reading an English do-it-yourself magazine, and they call what we call a flashlight, an electric torch."
Fascinating. I tried to stifle a yawn.
"Well technically we would just call it a torch," I said, feeling like an alien from another planet, albeit with a much higher intelligence of course. "You'd need an awfully long lead if it was electric."
Unfazed he continued. "They have different names for hammers too," he told me. He switched his attention to Grumpy, who had just ambled up. "Tell me, what do you call the thing you use to tap in panel pins?" he said, obviously not knowing his past history in the world of D-I-Y.
"A hammer," he replied, not missing a beat.

Reading Between The Lines

Thought you might like to see this week's Sun column. The real reason I was browsing so intently was to find magazines to write for. It's no wonder I'm not getting anywhere when I'm so easily distracted!
So far I've found no new publications, but have picked up another little teaching job for the autumn. If I chipped away at golf the way I do at trying to work, I'd be a champion by now!

Have you ever thought about how many magazines are published every month? Eight-thousand, seven-hundred and ninety-four!
Actually, that's a lie. Or it could be true. I have absolutely no idea, but I thought you would be impressed by my research skills. It's certainly a lot, as I discovered when browsing through the magazine section at the Nichols Library this week.
On newsstands I normally head straight for the women's section, but being a library, they obviously feel they have to use the Duo Decibel system, or whatever it's called. (Two loud rings and its closing time). So when I headed to W for Women, all I got was Wine Spectator, a magazine for people who presumably like to look at wine bottles.
I decided to wander back and start at A, some four blocks back. The first one to catch my eye was Alternative Medicine, an interesting title that got me thinking. What constitutes alternative? If I decide to have gin and tonic when I get a headache instead of an aspirin, I would certainly consider it a reasonable alternative to taking medicine. Just the thought started to make my head throb, so I moved on.
Sports seemed to feature heavily throughout the shelves. Baseball Digest, Bicycling, Canoe and Kayak, Car and Driver. Not sure if the latter is actually a sport, but it can seem like it when you're racing for the last place in the Main Street car lot on a Friday lunchtime.
I found Chicagoland Gardening and Chicago Wilderness side by side. Very apt, especially as my garden is often at odds with the wilderness that is trying to reclaim it.
The next one was called Domino. I reached for it, only able to see the spine.
"This must be really dull," I thought. "A magazine for domino players." It turned out to be a style magazine, no idea why. Some of the magazines do boast somewhat cryptic titles.
ENR turned out not to be Entertaining New Relations, but Engineering News Record. Futurist was not this month's horoscopes, but forecasts, trends and ideas about the future. Games for Windows had nothing to do with fun ways to clean or open your windows, or even how to make blinds or curtains, just ways to waste time on your computer.
I picked out a copy of Southern Accents. I guessed this would help me to talk like Paula Deen, very useful if I ever tire of people saying "I love your British accent" when I meet them, although unlikely. This turned out to be another style magazine, especially for those who want their homes to look like a Deep South plantation house a la Tara in "Gone With The Wind." Very strange.
I returned it between Online and Seventeen. Online was another unusual magazine. The cover told me it was a leading magazine for information professionals. The title, which for once was not ambiguous, was to do with things you can find online. Surely anyone interested enough would prefer to read it on their computer. I couldn't see why they would print a hard copy in the first place.
Seventeen, is of course, aimed at 17-year-old girls. It's obviously been going a long time, because I used to read it back in England when I was that age. (Or I could have been 15 trying to act older, it's so long ago I can't remember). I ran back a few blocks desperately seeking Fifty One, but oddly enough there didn't seem to be one. I wonder what makes 17 an iconic age, but 51 is something you'd rather forget?
Giving up on Fifty One, I discovered a hidden gem called Family Handyman. Nowadays, I have my own family handyman, Jett, but reading the magazine was the funniest piece of fiction I have read for months.
"How to make a shaded retreat that's surprisingly easy to build. Place it next to your deck or anywhere in your yard," I read. "Don't be intimidated by the post and beam design." I wasn't intimidated, I was actually quite amused. It looked so complicated a master builder would struggle.
"You'll need at least three full weekends and occasional help from a friend to complete the job."
That obviously meant three full weeks and the team from "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition."
"Our total materials cost almost $3,000 but you can save a bundle by choosing different building materials."
What? Newspaper and glue?
In case any other readers were either laughing uncontrollably or disputing it was true, the magazine thoughtfully included diagrams and photos with little arrows everywhere. I returned the magazine and decided not to bother. It looked like too much work and potentially dangerous. Heaven knows what alternative medicine you would need if you dropped a piece of timber on your foot, and I couldn't be bothered to look it up.

Basket Case

I'm not sure golf and I are ever going to be much of a partnership, judging by what happened at the golf range this afternoon. Last Wednesday I started another course of lessons. Today I realised I hadn't practised all week and I have my second one tomorrow, so went out with Buffy to hit a few balls. As I have previously documented, Buffy is a natural. The way I play I might as well be supernatural.
Anyhow, Buffy kindly drove me up to Arrowhead golf course to hit a few balls, not easy in a biting wind.
Eager to show off that I could do at least one thing better than she could, I carefully lined up the token in the machine which ejects golf balls into a basket. Previously I had tried not to gloat as she struggled to get the grooves in exactly the right place.
The token slipped in first time, no problem at all. Trouble was, in my haste I had completely forgotten to place the basket underneath and the balls shot out all over ground, rolling down the hill egged on by the strengthening wind. At least I got some exercise running after them...

Scenic Saugatuck

Saugatuck is a quaint artists' colony close to Lake Michigan. With it's shabby chic shops, waterfront and beautiful sunsets, it's possibily the closest the centre of the country has to Key West.

The Great Outdoors

We spent the second part of the weekend at a friend's holiday home in Michiana, so called because it lies close to the state line between Indiana and Michigan. Guess they thought Indigan wasn't such a pretty name. We did indeed get some work done on the show, although much of the conversation took place not over a baby grand as I expected, but in the foyer of the Four Winds casino whilst her husband won and mine lost.
Their cottage was like a Swiss chalet, tucked away in a wooded area close to the Lake Michigan beach and dunes. It was an idyllic spot, with so much surrounding woodland, we may as well have been in a tree house. We went for long walks along the beach, around the surrounding houses and to the nearest harbour at New Buffalo. The weather was balmy, but well behaved, with the thunder storm confined to the middle of the night.
We returned home late Monday afternoon, I was relieved to find the Hanging Gardens of Cress Creek had survived a day without watering, but somewhat shocked to find the entire front lawn and driveway smothered in leaves and broken branches. I can only assume the little storm we had experienced in Michigan, was a bit larger in our particular neck of the woods...

Broadway Bound

So here's the real reason we're in Michigan. Tomorrow I am stepping into a movie. Not really, of course, but I feel I am doing the sort of thing you see in one. We are staying with my composer friend who has a holiday cottage near the shores of Lake Michigan. We are working on our new show for the Congregation Beth Shalom to perform next year. In my mind I'll be staying at her white washed shabby chic home, you know, the one with shiney hardwood floors and white net curtains billowing in the wind. She and I will work at the piano while Grumpy and her husband cook up a sumptuous barbecue on the deck overlooking the beach.

A surprise guest will be her friend the producer, who will snap up the show for a Broadway premiere in the spring. We will be nominated for six Tonys and win four as we don't like to be greedy.

I'll let you know what actually happens shortly......

Groovy Baby

I am writing this undercover. I'm in hotel bar, taking refuge away from hundred kids running around screaming, jumping in and out of the hotel pool. Grumpy is in good spirits, literally, entertaining the locals over a scotch or two. He is currently running through a list of places we have visited, which the locals are finding very entertaining since I don't think they have ever left the state.
Earlier today we went through the same old thing in downtown Holland, you know, the "Gee, I love your accent. Can you say something?"

Grumpy snapped into British mode, lapping up the attention. Trouble is, people always think he sounds like Austin Powers. Not someone he has ever been compared to in England of course. Personally, considering the Mike Myers connection, I would put him nearer to Shrek...

Dutch Treat

This Memorial Day weekend we left the flatness of Illinois to go to....Holland! It's actually Holland, Michigan.

It wouldn't be Holland without a windmill or two.

They even have tulips

And a canal

Check these out at Clogspot.com

We didn't need a sign to tell us that....

As they say on the ads...somethings are pure Michigan

Happy Birthday Spike!

Grumpy's colleague and dancing partner Spike celebrated the big 5-0 today with a surprise lunch.

When I say dancing partner, what I mean is that he and his wife take lessons with us, although for all I know Grumpy and he could have danced the afternoon away together.

A co-worker looks on in horror as Spike prepares to dive head first into his birthday cake.

Name That Car

Thought you might like to see our latest must have accessories - personalised number plates.

What else could I have?

Of course anyone driving anywhere near him would know what he was like, but there's no harm in warning them...

Garden of Weeden

Just in case anyone read my Sun column this morning and decided to get the lawn police around to our house, and I'd be surprised if such a thing didn't exist in Naperville, I thought I'd put up some pictures of our gardening efforts some 27 years on....with just a little help from the boys of B and B Landscapes of course.

Out of towners can read it here:

Forget Weeds-B-Gone - how about Garden-B-Gone!
May 20, 2008

One of the nicest things about spring is seeing the garden in bloom again. Perhaps I should rephrase that. One of the worst things about spring is seeing the garden bloom again.
With it comes the promise of weeds, watering, digging and pruning, something that the gentle folk of Naperville seem to do instinctively. Unfortunately, Grumpy and I don't have so much as a green finger nail between us, let alone a green thumb. Every time I look out of the window I am amazed by the fact we bought a house with nearly half an acre of land attached to it. What were we thinking?
Our story starts not with the Garden of Eden, but the Garden of Weedin'. Our very first home was a little second floor apartment that backed onto a branch of the Tube railway line in Northwest London. It had its own postage stamp sized yard, with only a few flowers surrounding a square of crazy paving. Not having been a landowner before, Grumpy (who in those days was still only known as Whiney) thought doing yard work once a year would be sufficient.
"After all, it all dies off in the winter anyway," he reasoned.
Our little yard directly joined that of our downstairs neighbor, Petunia. She spent more time nurturing her little patch than she did indoors. It was pitiful to see her sweeping the snow away from her little plants in the winter, giving them warm soup to drink and probably wrapping tiny woollen scarves around their spindly stems.
"The previous people only did the garden once a month," she sneered at me one day. "I don't want any weeds coming on to my side, you know."
Poor Petunia hadn't had an easy time of it since we moved in. Within weeks our yard made the Brazilian rainforest look like botanical gardens. Still Grumpy did nothing and I always had my allergies to fall back on. By the summer things were unbearable. The garden was so overgrown we couldn't get the gate open. As for Petunia, I had to race down the path and throw myself through the front door to avoid her bitter attacks.
Finally Grumpy decided enough was enough. I think my telling him we would have to move if the garden wasn't dealt with may have had something to do with it, but I'm not sure.
He rented a trimmer that cut through the undergrowth like a knife through butter, albeit butter with large crumbs left in the tub. In next to no time the 20-foot high weeds were down to a 10-foot pile and the machine had only broken down once!
This, in turn, led to another dilemma. What should we do with the pile of slain undergrowth? There was certainly no collection service there like there is in Naperville.
Grumpy's first thought was to throw it over the fence onto the railway embankment. This proved unsatisfactory as there was so much garbage it made the overgrown embankment look untidy.
His next plan of action was to ignite it, but this was easier said than done. The pile was green, and whatever he threw on it - oil, firelighters, even lighter fuel, failed to start so much as a spark.
The heap became a curiosity. Our friends came round to see it, not in the least because in a valiant effort Grumpy had sprayed it with paint, hoping that would make it flammable. He wasn't amused when I suggested exhibiting in a modern art gallery.
In the end he simply moved the entire heap to a nearby area of waste ground and as far as we know it is still there clinging on to life. The whole saga took so long that by the time we had removed the waste, new weeds had triumphantly started to grow in its place.
This time there was no time to lose. Grumpy was a desperate man. It was either the weeds or him!
"I want something to get rid of my garden," he told the lady in the garden centre.
"Sorry, I don't understand," she said. "Do you mean the weeds or a particular plant?"
"No, all of it," he said.
"This is very good," she replied, holding up a little bottle. "But you mustn't get it near any plants you want to keep."
"I don't want to keep any," he insisted.
The assistant, who was obviously used to garden lovers, was horrified to meet a garden hater.
"Well there is this, but it is only used for clearing waste ground," she said, a worried look spreading across her face. "It really is lethal. I don't think it's what you want. Nothing will grow in the garden after using this."
"Perfect," said Grumpy. "Give me the largest size you have."
Nowadays we have a service trim and weed our yard. I resist the temptation to put plastic flowers in containers and pretend I have grown them myself. It may not be the prettiest yard in the area, but at least you can cross it without the aid of a scythe, camouflage and a tin helmet.

A Note of Dischord

I was about to start my piano lesson at Naperville Cultural Centre this afternoon when Jett appeared at the office door. This in itself is not so surprising, since he was looking for Serendipity who runs the place.

He greeted me with his big little boy smile, and I fell into crumbling mode as usual. What did surprise me, however, was the reaction of my teacher.

"Hilary's very shy you know," she told him. "She won't play if you're standing there. I don't know why, she's such a good student. She practises every week, even when she's on vacation."
I noted in all this gush, that Miss Melody never actually mentioned my musical prowess, just that I was a good student.
Not sure what I found most astonishing, that she probably thinks I don't have any natural talent, or that she felt she had to tell all this to Jett, as if he was my dad coming for open evening.

Spirtual Advancement?

We had only just joined the Congregation Beth Shalom synagogue when the rabbi left. We tried not to take it personally, and I for one have very fond memories of his final Friday night service when he sung My Sweet Lord. (In fact it was the funniest piece of entertainment I have ever seen since he took it quite seriously).

Since then the congregation has sailed bravely on under a selection of volunteer captains steered along by our charismatic cantor.

Tonight the congregation was full steam ahead as they joined to welcome a prospective rabbinical candidate at last. Most weeks about 30 people attend. Tonight the sanctuary was full. There were nearly as many people as on a high holyday. They came out in force to see the new man in action. If he is appointed, he's going to be bitterly disappointed on his first week out when he sees his congregation shrunk to nothing again.

Anyhow, after the service the place was in a party mood as they all got to know the rabbi, who will be relocating from Massachussetts if successful.

For what it's worth, he'll certainly get my vote.

"Oh yes," he said, as we were introduced. "I've read your blog. I know all about the synagogue's Purim show. It's very usefuly reading about how someone has moved into the area from so far away. I can certainly relate to that."

I'm still waiting for that call from a top magazine editor or Hollywood producer who wants to buy the rights to the blog, but I can only hope our new would-be rabbi has even higher connections....

Ten Reasons I Haven't Written

Sorry for not writing for so long. Here are my excuses...
1. The weather was wet and miserable so I was too depressed to write.
2. The weather turned sunny and beautiful so I had to go outside.
3. I've been out enjoying too many breakfast meetings, lunches and dinners.
4. I've been battling with my first week back at Weight Watchers. Struggling through too many breakfast meetings, lunches and dinners.
5. I've been out buying shrubs to plant for spring.
6. I've been busy thinking up excuses why I can't plant them out myself.
7. The dog ate my blog, which isn't easy because I don't have a dog.
8. Been on long walk with my senior neighbour. Had to return half way while she spritely carried on.
9. Went to see The Diving Bell and The Butterfly with Jett and Serendipity at After Hours Movie Club. Felt I had to spend days afterwards laying still not doing anything just to see what it would be like.
10. Thinking up 10th reason why I haven't written...

Flying High?

The first time I could see there was going to be a problem, was when the video map told us Chicago was 100 miles away. After a 3,000 mile flight this wasn't that it was a problem in itself, just that minutes earlier it had said 45 miles.
Then the little red plane that marked our journey started turning round. I suppose it proves those videos are real, at least. I always thought they just ran them like a movie.
"I'm sorry, but we are having a little problem with the weather in Chicago," the pilot clicked on. "There is tin mayels of storm so we yare diverting. We won't have enerf fuewel to get back, so we're landing at Milwaukee, refuelling and we'll be on our way. We'll update you as soon as we hear anythang. Thank you for yeur patience."
"That's typical," I said to Grumpy. "Just like a man not to top up the tank before setting off."
I expected little gas stations to pop up onto the video screen so the pilot could see the nearest place to refuel.
So after our 7hr and 40 mins flight, which ironically for most of the journey was an hour ahead of time, we landed. Of course we weren't allowed off the plane, but having been to Milkwaukee before, I can assure you I no wish to do so.
Nearby, a stewardess settled down with a book the size of War and Peace.
"For your entertainment, we will switch our movies and TV back on," came a voice over the intercom. "You can watch anything you may have er..have missed on the flight."
Great, just what you need. Even more time to watch films you've no interest in and re-runs of old re-runs.
Down the aisle there was a tiny kerfuffle going on.
"Can someone explain to this lady we aren't in Chicago?" the stewardess was asking an Indian passenger to explain to a fellow country woman who didn't speak English.
Elsewhere helpful passengers busied themselves explaining why one of the toilets was out of action because someone had been sick in it six hours earlier.
The pilot was back, not that he had actually gone anywhere, unless it was to buy cigarettes at the filling station.
"You mey hev noticed that the planes either side of us are being refuelled and not us," he explained. "Do not worry. They hev a different kind of fuewel. We'll be ready soon."
Guess they were on unleaded while we were on diesel or something.
Anyhow, after a mere one and half hours we were off again on one of the strangest flight of my life. We drove up the runway, rose into the skies, then began our descent immediately into Chicago, which is only a couple of hours drive away by road.
I know O'Hare closes at the drop of a hat, but I had hoped with the snow gone we wouldn't have had any problems. Chicago may be our kind of town, but not so sure about the airport....

Rural Ramblings

I daresay when Americans think of England, they often conjure up rural scenes of country villages and the local pub. This is isn't always the case, but just so you shouldn't be disappointed, we sort out one place that really does exist, the tiny village of Letchmore Heath in Hertfordshire.
Letchmore Heath's other claim to fame is that it is the home of the Bhaktivedanta Manor, a Hare Krishna retreat established by Beatle George Harrison in the 1970s.
So for the purposes of the blog at least, I can prove England still has some quaint scenery and lovely places to visit. Of course I could have just as easily pasted up pictures of crumbling urban areas full of graffiti and litter. Not to mention smashed telephone boxes and abandoned lorries at the side of the road. I could have written about the cost of living, employment situation and the fact that the new Mayor of London is a buffoon who only got the post because his predecessor was even worse.
So this is how I would prefer you to think of England, but remember, if it always roses round the door, I probably wouldn't be living in Naperville.

England's Green and Pleasant Land

Before leaving for the airport, we took a couple of hours out to revisit Aldenham Country Park, a local beauty spot I have visited for over 30 years. We used to take the children there when they were little. What you don't get from the photos is the beautiful bird song and the warmth of the sun. Luckily you also don't hear the roar of the motorway that runs around it!

Following in Father's Footsteps...

While visiting my mother today, I had a chance to look over a very early 'blog'. In 1935 my father wrote and illustrated a log book of a cycling trip he and a friend made across Southern England. It's interesting to see that I'm following in his footsteps. More than 70 years later, I'm categorising my own adventures. I maybe slightly further afield with the aid of new technology, but I'm still keeping up the family tradition.

My father is on the right, pictured at the age of 19.

To him cycling away from the East End of London to the unspoilt Sussex countryside was just as exciting as it is for me to have moved to the other side of the world.

Brighton Beach Memories

Being in England on a bank holiday gave us a last chance to live life like we used to. We met up with Grumpy's brother's family for a day trip to Brighton. We all piled into his car and drove for just over an hour to arrive at this popular British seaside resort. Uncharacteristically for a bank holiday, the traffic was light and the weather glorious. We normally spent three hours in traffic, then froze to death stoically sitting on the stoney beach as the wind tried to beat us to death.