Driving On the Right Side of the Road

Soon after the dinner party, we woke one morning to discover that V had slipped an envelope through the mail slot in our front door (no mailboxes in England, folks, just holes in your door).

“Thank you for joining us last evening for dinner. Here are the car keys. Have fun!”

We looked at each other, eyes wide.

“You’re driving,” Maile said.

* * * * *

We walked to the garage. For the first time in my life I found myself hoping it was a piece of crap automobile. Please, nothing that would match the rest of their possessions, I muttered under my breath. I didn’t want to start off my time in a new country by wrecking a Jaguar convertible or a Bugatti Veyron.

Blessing of all blessings, it was a 1995 (or thereabouts) Peugeot (yes, the little white car at the bottom).

It’s very strange, shifting with your left hand, making left turns on red, passing people on the right. We decided our first trip should be short, perhaps to the train station, so we drove to Great Missenden. All but the main roads are narrow, and I found myself hitting the ditch whenever an oncoming car approached. Once I got more skilled I would just cringe and close my eyes.

* * * * *

Weeks later, after we had purchased our own car, we made a left hand turn out of the lane, headed into the back roads of Buckinghamshire to explore some of the local villages. At one point I came cruising around a corner to find someone approaching on my side of the road!

I slammed on the breaks. He slammed on his breaks. We squealed to a halt mere feet from one another’s front bumpers, all of my stuff having flown forward on to the floor. Maile sat in the passenger seat, frozen in place, eyes wide open, as if the very specter of death had just walked out on to the road and waved a kind hello.

For one angry second I found myself thinking, “What is that idiot doing?” But in the seconds that followed, I sheepishly realized I was driving on the wrong, er, the right, side of the road.

* * * * *

“If we survive our time here,” Maile said, her voice shaking as we drove away, “we will have to consider ourselves very, very fortunate.”

* * * * *

(to read the first installment about my life in England, click HERE)

“No TV For One Year” Update

So there are a few reasons I don’t blog much anymore about our “No TV For One Year” experiment:

1 – it turned into a “No TV For One Year In Our House Experiment,” since I kind of ended up watching most of the World Cup (we were at my in-laws) and occasionally watch some football (at my parent’s house on Sunday afternoons).

2 – I don’t think about it very much. It seemed like this huge sacrifice in the beginning of the year, but once I got into the habit of not sitting down to watch it in the evenings, I just got into the habit of doing other, much more practical things (like playing on-line poker or catching up on all the blogs I follow on Google Reader)

3 – Of all the things I envisioned getting accomplished once I killed the TV (things like reading more books, writing more, playing more games with the family), the only one that has really happened has been “getting to bed earlier.”

I’ve come to the conclusion that, while giving things up is not a bad thing, it’s just as important to make sure you are deliberate about finding things that will fill the void. Otherwise, one time-wasting activity simply takes the place of another.

What am I most looking forward to about watching TV in 2011? Sports. Only three years until the next World Cup. And borrowing Bryan Allain’s complete collection of Lost and watching it from beginning to end, continually reminding him via blog and twitter that I get to experience it for the first time.

Oh, yeah, and Jersey Shore. Can’t wait for that.

Since I’ve been out of the TV loop for a year, what should I be sure not to miss in 2011?

A Story of Four Forks and a Surprisingly Empty House

My wife and I didn’t have to wait in the foyer for very long.

V swept toward us from what smelled like the direction of the kitchen, two glasses of champagne in her hand. A swirling vengeance of friendly German Shepherd activity surrounded her. Simultaneously apologetic and friendly, she deposited a long-stemmed glass into our hands, yelled viciously at the dogs, then turned to us again with a beautiful smile and asked about our day.

I was stunned. She looked equally at home in her beautiful silver gown as she had earlier that day when she wore work gloves and humongous boots while hefting a dead sheep into the back of her vehicle. Something about her was younger than us, even though she was in her late fifties and we were still 24 and 23. She led us gracefully into the kitchen so that she could finish the preparations while entertaining us.

Before long J made his way into the kitchen, hair still wet, showering apologies on us for not being ready when we arrived. He also exhibited this amazing combination of extreme graciousness (toward us) and complaining hostility (towards the three dogs, whenever they began thrusting their snouts into improper places).

“For goodness sakes!” V finally shouted in a shrill British accent that reminded me of the Queen in Alice in Wonderland. “Out! Out! All of you!” And while the three dogs seemed completely oblivious of J, when V spoke their tails dropped and they whimpered their way into the laundry room.

“Hm,” V said with a smile on her face. “That’s much better.”

Then the doorbell rang. Butterflies. Who were their guests? Would we add up? Feel awkwardly American? Make complete fools of ourselves?

Before the first couple made it inside the house, three more sets of headlights drove past the kitchen window and parked at the back of the driveway. Then the doorbell rang again. Soon voices flooded the house. Then V’s voice in a kind of happy shout, “Everyone to the dining room!”

Maile and I took a deep breath, then walked back down the hall, following the slowly shifting tide of humanity. Everyone chatted loudly, sipping the champagne V had similarly thrust into each of their arriving hands. The crowd bottled up outside one of the doors for a moment, then stood waiting as V directed everyone to their assigned seat.

Couples would not sit together. V arranged the seating in the order she thought would provide the most discussion among attendees. Everyone else seemed used to this, laughing with delight when they saw who V had put them beside. Maile and I were separated by a few seats. I squeezed her hand before she went to her seat. She smiled nervously.

The room was about 12 by 24. A large rectangular table, covered with 14 place settings, sat under a modest chandelier. Every square inch of the table was covered with either glasses or wine bottles or serving trays or tea pots and tea cups. Each plate was flanked by four forks, multiple spoons and varying knives. I eyed up the encoded silverware and prepared myself for what was sure to be a stressful meal.

But one of the gentlemen dispelled this myth quickly.

“My God, V, how the hell am I supposed to eat with so many pieces of cutlery? Do I use just one piece at a time?”

Everyone laughed, and the sound filled me with relief and happiness. V waved her hand.

“Just start on the outside. Besides, no one cares which fork you use.”

Everyone laughed again. I had a feeling that everyone laughing knew which fork to use, but they were all old enough to not really care about it anymore.

It was one of the most spectacular evenings of my life.

They were clearly old friends, both in age and in years spent together. The only other couple under forty  was one of V’s sons who had come with his girlfriend – he, along with J, were the two axis around which the party revolved. V, once the crowd was organized to her liking and the food was proven to be perfect, seemed quite happy to fade into the background.

Something about this group made me feel safe. They were all so friendly, so kind, as if we, too, had grown up with them, had grown old with them, had started businesses and became fabulously rich with them. Perhaps they did it just to be nice, to be polite to the guests of their hosts. But I think they did it because they saw, in us, something of themselves. Adventurers moving to England to start a new life, a new business. Young hope.

Towards the end of the night J stood and raised what was probably his 7th or 8th glass of white wine toward the ceiling. He put one hand on the table to steady himself. His words were slightly slurred, but endearingly so.

“And to our special guests, Shawn and Maile, for joining us tonight. Cheers!”

Everyone raised their glasses and toasted us, then drank. But J kept going:

“They’ve come very far. Practically deep into the jungle” (at this everyone had a good laugh). “But it’s true! It’s true. They’ve left the comforts of their home. They’ve left their families behind. They’ve come into this foreign land to introduce the savages to a new product” (more laughter). “But we wish them all the greatest success. We hope that with hard work, and perseverance, all their wildest dreams will come true.”

A more serious “Cheers!” rose up from the crowd, as if all of them, at some point in their lives, had taken a similar trek into the jungle.

The night went too quickly. Soon we were saying good-bye, walking down the dark lane, lit now and again by the headlights of other departing guests, some of whom rolled down their windows to say good-bye to their new American friends. The three German Shepherds accompanied us home, their large paws making light thumps on the grassy bank beside the lane – somehow we were their friends now, after just one night in the house on the hill.

We could hear the occasional bleating of sheep in the dark meadows. When we arrived home that night the house was finally empty – no longer filled with homesickness and anxiety and the little pangs of fear. It was simply empty. And waiting to be filled with new things.

(continued here: Driving On the Right Side of the Road)

(to read the first installment about my life in England, click HERE)

What’s Your Golden Ticket?

There’s plenty of money out there. They print more every day. But this ticket, there’s only 5 of them in the whole world, and that’s all there’s ever going to be. Only a dummy would give this up for something as common as money. Are you a dummy?

– Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

* * * * *

This is my favorite part of the movie, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Charlie, on his third try, manages to buy a chocolate bar with a golden ticket inside. Only five children in the whole world will find a ticket and gain entrance to Willie Wonka’s private candy factory.

It’s a dream come true. Charlie finds a ticket. But on his way out of the candy store, someone offers him $500 for his ticket. Charlie is dirt poor. By the time he gets home with his ticket, he has made a difficult decision: his family needs the money more than he needs a trip to a chocolate factory.

But his grandfather looks at him:

“There’s plenty of money out there. They print more every day. But this ticket, there’s only 5 of them in the whole world, and that’s all there’s ever going to be. Only a dummy would give this up for something as common as money. Are you a dummy?”

* * * * *

What’s your view of money? Do you realize how common it is? What are you willing to give up for it?

What’s your golden ticket? What limited edition thing (dream, opportunity, lifestyle, gift, the list goes on and on and on) are you about to give up, just so that you’ll have more money?

* * * * *

Turns out, by keeping the ticket, Charlie ends up owning the entire factory. That sounds a heck of a lot better than $500. If you give up your golden ticket, what are you actually giving up? What are you gaining?

* * * * *

We all give up certain things for money. Part of that is a necessary exchange. If we want to have a place to live, clothes to wear, food to eat, then most of us have to give up our time and work for money. But sometimes we start to really like the extra stuff that money can give us. So we start leaving more and more stuff at it’s altar.

The Undressed Man

Maile and I left our mostly empty cottage and, with quite a bit of nervousness, began walking up the two-track lane towards the “big house on the hill.” I say our cottage was “mostly empty” – it was actually still rather full of homesickness and uncertainty. But we don’t give much credence to unseen things, no matter how real they might be.

We probably walked slow. We probably didn’t say much – we had only been married for about two years at that point, and in the early days of a marriage it is easy to believe you are still your own person, capable of smoke-screening your emotions. We probably held hands, and the protected area, inside our palms, would have grown warm while the October air laid a thin screen of coolness on the exposed portions.

The drive took us between two sheep pastures lined on all other sides with forest. The tips of the trees were turning colors, like the edges of a piece of paper just starting to burn.

The countryside watched in near silence as we rose up the side of the hill, walked the driveway behind the large stone house. We had never seen it up close before: ivy covered the house on all sides, a rising flood of green threads; a large retaining wall defined the forest side of the lane, kept the hill and the trees mostly at bay, uphill from the house; cords and cords of split firewood lined the one side of the house, stacked neatly outside French doors. The wood’s flesh was the color of honey.

Three German Shepherds came skidding around the corner of the house, offended and howling, their nails scratching on the now-cobbled drive. Their greeting (slobbering snouts thrust into my palm, as well as every other nook and cranny) was rough and questioning. They barked and whined at us until we walked up to the front door and rang the bell, at which point they ran around to some side door, looking to make their own entrance, perhaps preparing to guard the house from us yet again.

We stood there, the two of us, shrugging and raising our eyebrows at one another as if to ask What are we doing up here? or Crazy, huh? Small town USA was about to collide with high-English culture. Who knew that friendship could result?

I pushed on the buzzer door-bell. Only silence. I looked at my watch. We were right on time. We rang the bell again. Still nothing.

Then an upstairs window flung outwards. We looked up. A gentleman, probably in his late 50s, leaned out through the large window. His hair was wet and he didn’t have a shirt on. I could see a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You must be Shawn and Maile?” he asked, the broadest, friendliest grin on his face. We nodded. He lifted his shoulders as if to say, What can I say about the state you have discovered me in?, then he laughed out loud. He ruffled his wet head with one hand, his other hand holding his towel in place. “Please, come in. Make yourselves comfortable. V and I will be right down.”

He pulled the window closed, waving one last time. “Five minutes!” he shouted again, and in the sound of his voice I detected something familiar, like the crunching of leaves underfoot, or wind blowing through well known trees. Don’t misunderstand me – I had never met J in my life. But he spoke to us as if he knew us, or had at least already committed to getting to know us.

I pushed on the door latch and the heavy thing swung open. We stepped into a small foyer area. An endless hallway stretched to both our right and left. Through a large window in front of us I could see the daylight beginning to fade.

(continued here: A Story of Four Forks, and a Surprisingly Empty House)

(to read the first installment about my life in England, click HERE)

Eyes Brown, the Color of Rattlesnake Skin: A Conversation With Veterans

I sat with the three men on a porch in San Antonio. Glaring rays of sunlight raced from the western hills, parallel with the ground, blinding where they slipped under the trees. The floorboards of the large porch creaked as the men shifted their weight.

“So who did you serve with?” C asked the other two. C was balding, forty-ish, with a bear-trap handshake. He had recently returned from Iraq and Afghanistan – this explained the glassy eyes, the ingrained “yes-sir,” and the feeling that some part of him had been pretty badly sand-blasted by the middle eastern deserts.

Both men replied “Navy,” although both served longer with the SEALs than as regular servicemen. There’s something about SEALs, even retired, who divulge just enough information to be polite, and no more.

“Right on,” C replied, leaning back in his chair.

“And you?” K asked. K was tall: 6’ 6” at least with broad shoulders and a stride that easily matched two of mine.

“Army, sir.”

“We won’t hold that against you,” K said, laughing.

“That’s for sure,” C retorted, a sarcastic glint in his eyes.

The other SEAL, A, smiled gently. His Native American heritage gave itself away quickly: coarse, black hair; dark brown eyes the color of rattlesnake skin; his affinity to talking about the wind and the spirits. But his peacefulness wrapped around a part of him, as if there was something broken that was just growing back, and he wanted to protect it.

A had traumatic brain injuries taken in the line of duty. His left side worked, but only with some coaxing. As he talked, he gesticulated with both hands, but the fingers on his right hand often had to go over and adjust the fingers on his left hand, or reposition his left arm. Only after spending the day with him did I start to realize he was trying to keep me to his right – all vision to his left was gone. And he wore a beret – it looked sharp, added to his image, but also served to round out the caved-in side of his head, where he had been shot.

The three men shared short snippets of battle stories. K’s conversation prodded C for any signs of PTSD. Nothing surgical, just innocent questions. The men laughed too, and when they did I could see them drinking it in, the same way my children drink grape Kool Aid.

“There was one guy on my team,” K said, “and when the bullets started flying, he wasn’t worried about being killed. He didn’t experience fear. But one thought flashed through his head: ‘This is why my mom wanted me to be a banker.’”

This struck them all as being hilarious, but their belly-laughs slowly died down into silence.

“It’s the wives who get it the worst,” K said. A nodded.

“Yeah,” C said. “When I got him from my first tour I opened all the cabinets in the kitchen and just stared at them. My wife came in and said, ‘What the heck are you doing?’ I told her, I just couldn’t remember where stuff was. I told her I had to get my old memories back.”

“Life is therapy for everyone,” A said, adjusting the fingers on his left hand so that they formed a fist, then laying the fist down on the table. “We’re all born broken.”

It seems that when a discussion is going on between men who have seen war, the quiet spaces between the spoken words are longer and more meaningful. There isn’t a rush to fill the peace with just anything.

C excused himself, said how proud he was to have met them, and broke all their fingers with his handshake before driving off in his truck.

“He’s got the eyes,” K said, his mouth a flat line of regret.

“There’s a lot going on inside that man’s head,” A said quietly.

“He talked about his wife but he’s not wearing a wedding band,” K observed.

“It’s the same old story, over and over and over again.”

The two retired Navy SEALs sat quietly in their chairs, staring at one another as if they were communicating without words. Then K leaned back and looked up at the porch ceiling. A stood up and walked off the porch – his left leg obeyed him better than his left fingers, and he walked with only a slight limp.

“I got his number,” A said over his shoulder. “I’ll call him sometime.”

“Don’t push him,” K said. “Don’t pry too hard.”

The San Antonio wind raced over the lake. The sun dropped behind one of the green hills, turning the sky purple and orange and pink.