The UK has certain distinctive advantages over America: the history, the unique atmosphere, the pubs, the bookstores. It is really a wonderful place to live. But America does much better than the UK on a few fronts. Selection, for one, is infinitely better here, whether in the housing market or the grocery store. Most of all, though, I have noticed how much more convenient everything is in America. You can get food practically any time of the day or night, most stores are open until at least nine or ten: whatever you need is right at your fingertips. Unfortunately, that also applies to whatever you want, and America simply wants too much.
Having convenient access to your needs is a very good thing. Even having easy access to your wants can be a good thing, as long as those wants are held in check. But without due control, the occasional indulgence can morph into full blown greed. Then we begin to think that what we want is what we need and will not take no for an answer. This sense of entitlement is unfortunately all around us.
I recently was in a Starbucks for a quick coffee when I observed a most troublesome scene. Before me in line was a middle-aged woman, rather orange with fake tan and loaded down with every possible type of jewelry. Along with her thirty or forty rings she carried a Gucci bag and yapped vigorously on her Blackberry, loudly complaining about the long line of two people in front of her. When she finally made it to the till 45 seconds later, she ordered a triple grande latte. For those of you not into coffee, that's a medium latte with three shots of espresso (there is no "x" in espresso), "But you can throw in a fourth shot if you want to," she told the barista. You see, every time Starbucks brews espresso, two shots are produced because of the machine set-up. So this lady knew that four shots of espresso would be made to create her three-shot drink. The extra one would have been used in my drink.
"You did just want a triple grande, not a quadruple grande, right?" the barista enquires.
"Well, yes, but you'll have an extra, so if you just want to get rid of it in my drink, that's fine. That's what they always do at the Starbucks I normally go to."
By this point I had already ordered my drink, which also required espresso, with the other cashier, so clearly the extra shot would find a home, but the woman was making it very clear that she wasn't just trying to help the baristas, she actually expected them to give her the fourth shot for free. At only fifty cents a shot, I was rather appalled by the dicotomy of her affluent appearance and her miserly coffee habits. It's one thing when a long-time barista throws in an extra shot for a loyal customer because of friendship; it's not the same when you purposefully buy one shot fewer than you want just because you are stingy, while all along expecting a better beverage than you purchased.
Just today in the car I heard a Schick (I think) commercial making use of America's sense of entitlement. The whole commercial is founded on examples of people ordering less than they expect. First someone orders a burger and is mad that he did not receive two burgers. Then someone else buys three of something while expecting four. Schick then steps in to say that we should expect more than we pay for, and that's why Schick gives us three blades for the price of two.
The idea that we deserve more than we actually pay for is a by-product of American convenience. It has become so firmly established that the customer is always right that customers now often demand much more than is right. It's McDonald's fault if you can't hold your coffee properly in your car; it's the Universal Studios' fault if you go into their haunted house and "suffer mental anguish." Preposterous. (By the way, here is site detailing a few ridiculous lawsuits.) Nor should you assume you can get something more than you pay for without a coupon. It's time we lost these "rights," for they were never ours to begin with. Convenience is no excuse for greediness.
Song of My Coffee
This morning as I sat drinking some coffee, I was inspired to write a poem. Here is what came forth:
Song of My Coffee
On the counter near the mixer
Brews my magic brown elixir
Whence my early vigor comes
And my ever-nightly Tums.
It is a true and constant friend
In sickness, health, or on the mend
From germ or woe or being bludgeoned;
It quickens me with scent so pungent.
And should you think that it were fate
That man and brew should thus relate?
Indeed - for 'twas not I that chose -
'Tis Java has me in its throes.
For once upon a glacier frozen
There were but me and some old crows, in
Britain's north, the land of Scots,
Banished from King Arthur's thoughts.
Yes, I was naught but errant knight
Who lost a killer-rabbit fight.
With failure grim I left the court,
My shame unable to support.
I found my way to snow and ice,
Mostly for to kill the lice
That grew upon my head like mold
(Thank God they cannot take the cold!).
So there I sat and contemplated
How grand to be defenestrated,
When what should sudden catch my ear -
An angel singing loud and clear:
"The best part of waking up
Is full chores in your cup."
Though voice and tune had me astounded,
The message left me twice confounded,
For chores were not my cup of tea,
Especially in hours wee.
Alighted near, the heav'nly being
As I, afraid, considered fleeing
Into a sharp and deep crevass,
But life would surely be my loss.
"Fear not," quoth she with solemn glee,
"For I bring full chores here with me!"
"Nay," says I. "I'd rather die
"Then live with full chores piled high!"
And so she flew, my chance of hope,
As I sat down to sigh and mope,
When what should fate but bring me luck:
I saw a golden glowing buck!
It seemed to beckon as I gazed
For me to follow through the haze.
It strode away toward icy peaks
While 'neath its foot sprung brownish creeks.
And then it turned and said "Behold!"
And saw I there a thousand fold,
A host of shining bucks of gold
There on a northern glacier cold.
Then all the creeks did join to one
And all the bucks began to run -
Beyond the tips of mountains far
They came together as a star.
Turning to the river I,
With joyful heart and eager eye,
Drank my fill of beverage free
And knew to call its name "coffee."
Lifting up my head to heaven,
Thankful for a gift so given,
I saw a star, a sign of luck,
And named it thus, the Star of Bucks.
Thus the denouement draws nigh:
Java found me, not Java I.
So now when I of coffee think,
'Tis to the Star of Bucks I drink.
Song of My Coffee
On the counter near the mixer
Brews my magic brown elixir
Whence my early vigor comes
And my ever-nightly Tums.
It is a true and constant friend
In sickness, health, or on the mend
From germ or woe or being bludgeoned;
It quickens me with scent so pungent.
And should you think that it were fate
That man and brew should thus relate?
Indeed - for 'twas not I that chose -
'Tis Java has me in its throes.
For once upon a glacier frozen
There were but me and some old crows, in
Britain's north, the land of Scots,
Banished from King Arthur's thoughts.
Yes, I was naught but errant knight
Who lost a killer-rabbit fight.
With failure grim I left the court,
My shame unable to support.
I found my way to snow and ice,
Mostly for to kill the lice
That grew upon my head like mold
(Thank God they cannot take the cold!).
So there I sat and contemplated
How grand to be defenestrated,
When what should sudden catch my ear -
An angel singing loud and clear:
"The best part of waking up
Is full chores in your cup."
Though voice and tune had me astounded,
The message left me twice confounded,
For chores were not my cup of tea,
Especially in hours wee.
Alighted near, the heav'nly being
As I, afraid, considered fleeing
Into a sharp and deep crevass,
But life would surely be my loss.
"Fear not," quoth she with solemn glee,
"For I bring full chores here with me!"
"Nay," says I. "I'd rather die
"Then live with full chores piled high!"
And so she flew, my chance of hope,
As I sat down to sigh and mope,
When what should fate but bring me luck:
I saw a golden glowing buck!
It seemed to beckon as I gazed
For me to follow through the haze.
It strode away toward icy peaks
While 'neath its foot sprung brownish creeks.
And then it turned and said "Behold!"
And saw I there a thousand fold,
A host of shining bucks of gold
There on a northern glacier cold.
Then all the creeks did join to one
And all the bucks began to run -
Beyond the tips of mountains far
They came together as a star.
Turning to the river I,
With joyful heart and eager eye,
Drank my fill of beverage free
And knew to call its name "coffee."
Lifting up my head to heaven,
Thankful for a gift so given,
I saw a star, a sign of luck,
And named it thus, the Star of Bucks.
Thus the denouement draws nigh:
Java found me, not Java I.
So now when I of coffee think,
'Tis to the Star of Bucks I drink.
Beware Exploding Crabapples
When I think of porches, my mind is inevitably drawn to the sun beating down on my back as I bend over dry wood, paintbrush in hand. My family's large, elevated wooden deck was a barren land during my childhood. We seldom set foot on it except for the occasional cook-out and the bi or tri-annual staining of its bleached bones. Eager to make a few extra bucks, I always started the labor. My father would recommend that I rise early and get some work done before it was too hot, but did I listen? Of course! I just didn't apply, that's all. Early morning (that is, before 11 AM) and summer do not mingle.
I would finally roll out of bed at about 11:30 or noon, eat some breakfast, wait ten minutes, eat some lunch, wait five minutes, have a snack, and play some video games. Sometimes I would mix it up and eat lunch first, but my experimentation stopped there. Around three or four my mother would ask me if I was ever going to stain the porch like I said I would. Loth, I would finally go out.
Once outside, it did not take long for me to feel miserable for myself. The bending, the mosquitoes, and worst of all, the unbearable summer heat of which my father warned. My breaking point was normally about eight minutes, nine if I stopped for a break. By that point I had stained about two square feet, which I found rather impressive. Being a sweaty boy, I would then drip my proud self back into the house where, by the fearful sight of such copious perspiration, my mother would send me straight to the shower (despite my fervent protestations). How could I argue with my own mother? By 3:09 my duties for the day were over and I had earned a cool $1.58. After a few days of my lethargy, my father would take over, finishing the whole deck in one day.
Apart from my eight or nine minutes on a few days every two or three summers, I never went out on the deck. It was like a patch of scorched earth, unable to produce life. Sometimes it would attract wildlife, as carrion brings vultures - termites, woodpeckers, ferocious killer rabbits - but we were eager to scare them off with our plastic owl Gus. With Gus on patrol, the killer rabbits kept to their own business, though I secretly mourned their departure. To this day our watchful sentinel stands guard.
But I have had other porch experiences as well. My grandparents on my father's side were porch lovers for as long as I could remember. They had a cozy house in Cincinnati with a huge backyard. Every evening when we visited (or morning or afternoon), we would all recess to the porch until the mosquitoes started sucking. Grandma would sit and talk with us for awhile, and then I (and often my siblings) would wander out into the yard to check out the garden. It too was enormous, full of green beans and corn and 'maters and every other vegetable eaten in country dinners. Both from rural backgrounds, my grandparents loved their fresh veggies. I did too, especially when cooked with liberally applied bacon grease.
If we went too far beyond the garden we would hear a faint "Kids!" coming from the porch, our sign to come back a little. During the day it was easier to evade the grown-ups' eyes. Then we would take to the crabapples with baseball bats, tennis rackets, hoes, tree branches - whatever could be used to explode the little suckers into millions of pieces. There is something supremely satisfying about watching an overripe crabapple blow up and fly across the yard. This activity, however, was not sanctioned. Every few apples we would glance to the porch to ensure our safety. When had a particularly juicy explosion, we had to contain our "whoa!"s so as not to elicit unwanted notice.
The porch was nice, but the yard was better. The porch was for adults, the yard for kids; the porch for talk, the yard for play. And so it stayed for some time. But everyone has to grow up, and so did I. After awhile, my grandparents moved away from Cincinnatti, the big yard and the stairs of the house becoming a burden. With the move, porches exited my life for a few years. I went off to college where porches were virtually non-existent, but I discovered something else. I learned that a large quad was the perfect place to relax and reflect at two or three in the morning. Despite the three dorms that surrounded it, Myers Quad was virtually empty at that time of night, especially during the times of year when I was most wont to wander late. On chilly nights in February or perhaps March, there I would be.
A few years later as a senior, I finally took some time to explore the large botanical gardens just down the road from my apartment. Always assuming them to be a bit girly, I had not realized how wonderful were the trails that ran along the Oconee River. That year I found myself frequently following the unmarked trails for the "Botans," as my sister and I called them, finding unmarred riverbend beaches and rocks jutting into the river where I could sit and enjoy nature.
I loved my quad walks and my time in the Botans because they were the closest I could come to enjoying nature unspoilt in a city full of people. Since then I have finally come to understand my own love of nature, a love that was hidden throughout my childhood, never given a chance to blossom. And that love has only grown since college.
Shortly after graduation I was wed to my lovely wife, and before moving to England we stayed in the basement of my middle school science teacher's house for a few months. Mrs D and her husband Mr D fully appreciated the wonder of nature. While living in their house, I came to understand the value of a living porch. Exiting the dining room, you hardly felt like you had left the house, but you instantly felt surrounded by nature. With a large awning over a sitting area enclosed by flowers, plants, and feeding hummingbirds, their porch was the best natural getaway you could find in an urban setting. Every morning my wife and I would see them outside enjoying their green sanctuary.
At that point I couldn't help but wonder if porches might have something more to offer. Now, less than a year later, I have my own porch, and I am currently sitting on it. Sure I've already killed some chrysanthemums, and I bet before I'm through our porch will have been a plant mausoleum more than once. And it's true that I have yet to get the hummingbird feeder up (but we've only lived here a few weeks - geez, give me a chance!), but in time our porch will hopefully be as green as that of the D's.
Despite the sound of air conditioning units and the view of the parking lot, sitting on the porch has become one of my favorite activities. The birds living in the trees beyond the lot seem to be happy, so I'm happy too. It's no Alaskan wilderness; it's not even an area park, but at least sitting out here I'm closer to nature than in my kitchen. No cell phone, no email - just me, my pad of paper, and the birds. It's amazing how much a little nature can bring relaxation and rest to a hectic life.
As subdivisions and skyscrapers erode away what is left of nature in our cities, it becomes harder to remember those times when we enjoyed being alone with the trees, the wildlife, the fresh air, and our thoughts. But the porch can provide a taste of these, just enough so we do not forget. Be warned, though, if walking under my porch: I have not lost my taste for exploding crabapples.
I would finally roll out of bed at about 11:30 or noon, eat some breakfast, wait ten minutes, eat some lunch, wait five minutes, have a snack, and play some video games. Sometimes I would mix it up and eat lunch first, but my experimentation stopped there. Around three or four my mother would ask me if I was ever going to stain the porch like I said I would. Loth, I would finally go out.
Once outside, it did not take long for me to feel miserable for myself. The bending, the mosquitoes, and worst of all, the unbearable summer heat of which my father warned. My breaking point was normally about eight minutes, nine if I stopped for a break. By that point I had stained about two square feet, which I found rather impressive. Being a sweaty boy, I would then drip my proud self back into the house where, by the fearful sight of such copious perspiration, my mother would send me straight to the shower (despite my fervent protestations). How could I argue with my own mother? By 3:09 my duties for the day were over and I had earned a cool $1.58. After a few days of my lethargy, my father would take over, finishing the whole deck in one day.
Apart from my eight or nine minutes on a few days every two or three summers, I never went out on the deck. It was like a patch of scorched earth, unable to produce life. Sometimes it would attract wildlife, as carrion brings vultures - termites, woodpeckers, ferocious killer rabbits - but we were eager to scare them off with our plastic owl Gus. With Gus on patrol, the killer rabbits kept to their own business, though I secretly mourned their departure. To this day our watchful sentinel stands guard.
But I have had other porch experiences as well. My grandparents on my father's side were porch lovers for as long as I could remember. They had a cozy house in Cincinnati with a huge backyard. Every evening when we visited (or morning or afternoon), we would all recess to the porch until the mosquitoes started sucking. Grandma would sit and talk with us for awhile, and then I (and often my siblings) would wander out into the yard to check out the garden. It too was enormous, full of green beans and corn and 'maters and every other vegetable eaten in country dinners. Both from rural backgrounds, my grandparents loved their fresh veggies. I did too, especially when cooked with liberally applied bacon grease.
If we went too far beyond the garden we would hear a faint "Kids!" coming from the porch, our sign to come back a little. During the day it was easier to evade the grown-ups' eyes. Then we would take to the crabapples with baseball bats, tennis rackets, hoes, tree branches - whatever could be used to explode the little suckers into millions of pieces. There is something supremely satisfying about watching an overripe crabapple blow up and fly across the yard. This activity, however, was not sanctioned. Every few apples we would glance to the porch to ensure our safety. When had a particularly juicy explosion, we had to contain our "whoa!"s so as not to elicit unwanted notice.
The porch was nice, but the yard was better. The porch was for adults, the yard for kids; the porch for talk, the yard for play. And so it stayed for some time. But everyone has to grow up, and so did I. After awhile, my grandparents moved away from Cincinnatti, the big yard and the stairs of the house becoming a burden. With the move, porches exited my life for a few years. I went off to college where porches were virtually non-existent, but I discovered something else. I learned that a large quad was the perfect place to relax and reflect at two or three in the morning. Despite the three dorms that surrounded it, Myers Quad was virtually empty at that time of night, especially during the times of year when I was most wont to wander late. On chilly nights in February or perhaps March, there I would be.
A few years later as a senior, I finally took some time to explore the large botanical gardens just down the road from my apartment. Always assuming them to be a bit girly, I had not realized how wonderful were the trails that ran along the Oconee River. That year I found myself frequently following the unmarked trails for the "Botans," as my sister and I called them, finding unmarred riverbend beaches and rocks jutting into the river where I could sit and enjoy nature.
I loved my quad walks and my time in the Botans because they were the closest I could come to enjoying nature unspoilt in a city full of people. Since then I have finally come to understand my own love of nature, a love that was hidden throughout my childhood, never given a chance to blossom. And that love has only grown since college.
Shortly after graduation I was wed to my lovely wife, and before moving to England we stayed in the basement of my middle school science teacher's house for a few months. Mrs D and her husband Mr D fully appreciated the wonder of nature. While living in their house, I came to understand the value of a living porch. Exiting the dining room, you hardly felt like you had left the house, but you instantly felt surrounded by nature. With a large awning over a sitting area enclosed by flowers, plants, and feeding hummingbirds, their porch was the best natural getaway you could find in an urban setting. Every morning my wife and I would see them outside enjoying their green sanctuary.
At that point I couldn't help but wonder if porches might have something more to offer. Now, less than a year later, I have my own porch, and I am currently sitting on it. Sure I've already killed some chrysanthemums, and I bet before I'm through our porch will have been a plant mausoleum more than once. And it's true that I have yet to get the hummingbird feeder up (but we've only lived here a few weeks - geez, give me a chance!), but in time our porch will hopefully be as green as that of the D's.
Despite the sound of air conditioning units and the view of the parking lot, sitting on the porch has become one of my favorite activities. The birds living in the trees beyond the lot seem to be happy, so I'm happy too. It's no Alaskan wilderness; it's not even an area park, but at least sitting out here I'm closer to nature than in my kitchen. No cell phone, no email - just me, my pad of paper, and the birds. It's amazing how much a little nature can bring relaxation and rest to a hectic life.
As subdivisions and skyscrapers erode away what is left of nature in our cities, it becomes harder to remember those times when we enjoyed being alone with the trees, the wildlife, the fresh air, and our thoughts. But the porch can provide a taste of these, just enough so we do not forget. Be warned, though, if walking under my porch: I have not lost my taste for exploding crabapples.
Rethinking Enviornmentalism
It's been a while here at the JP Survey. Moving does that to you. So I (Ashley) have decided to write a few guest posts to get dicussions flowing again. Jonathan and I both enjoy reading about issues, playfully arguing - I mean, dicussing - issues, and writing about them, so please join us!
Now that we're back from jolly old England, re-adjusting to American culture has left us walking less, surrounded by much newer things, and sadly, drinking a little less English Breakfast. On the bright side, though, we now have a working faucet in the bathroom, 70 degree weather in February, and Chick-fil-A. So we're good.
On a more serious note, there is one distinction in particular between Americans and Brits - generally speaking - that we'd like to share today: views on the enviornment.
This is a somewhat hot-button topic in American politics. If you haven't followed this debate in recent years (due to being in Timbuktu or Siberia, of course), the broad break-down in opinion follows:
LIBERALS: Followers of Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth. We've destroyed our environment, if we don't act now the earth will be inhabitable within 24 hours, yada yada.
CONSERVATIVES: Inherently dislike Al Gore and therefore reject anything he publishes. The economy is more important than the environment, there is no proof of harm anyway, blah blah.
Enlgand, however, is over this debate. They've, ahem, sided with liberals here. Now before all you conservative readers stop reading, let's rethink this whole issue for just a minute, as my husband and I did while living in Oxford. We confess to having not carefully considered the issue before; but once we did, the results were interesting:
For Christians, why did this turn into a political debate in the first place? And how in the world did most Christians (the so-called "right-wing evangelicals" and such) end up on the "we don't really care about the enviornment" side? Seriously. Let's go back to the basics.
"God created the great sea creatures and every living creature that moves, with which the waters swarmed after their kind, and every winged bird after its kind; and God saw that it was good....God made the beasts of the earth after their kind, and the cattle after their kind, and everything that creeps on the ground after its kind; and God saw that it was good." (Genesis Chapter 1)
Notice the pattern? God creates. It's good. God creates. It's good.
Then what does he do when humans enter the picture? He gives us the entire earth. To subdue it, to care for it, to tend it. In a way, we (mankind) are the governors of the world. We are not the ultimate ruler, but we definitely have some authority, at least for now. The question is, how do we use that authority?
Somehow, I'm fairly certain the answer should NOT be to trash the earth without regard to its future. No, we are called - yes CALLED - to care for the earth. So whether or not Al Gore is "making up" enviornmental drama is not the point. It doesn't matter if the Earth will self-destruct in 1 year or 1,000,000,000,000 years. We have responsibilities to do the best job we can as 'governors' of the world today.
The environmental debate is still important scientifically, of course. (And may I encourage you to read the scientists themselves on this issue, not news columnists or politicians who can filter the data one way or the other?) But again, the truth or falsity of An Inconvenient Truth should not be our basis for how we view environmentalism. Look to higher standards of Truth.
Practically, what does this look like? Well, we're still working on that part. But little things do add up, so why don't we all start by trying to waste less? Let's reuse and recycle, as Captain Planet always encouraged us as children. (And let's "take pollution down to zero" while we're at it! Just kidding.)
Food for thought....
And Jonathan wanted to include a note:
Save the polar bears.
Now that we're back from jolly old England, re-adjusting to American culture has left us walking less, surrounded by much newer things, and sadly, drinking a little less English Breakfast. On the bright side, though, we now have a working faucet in the bathroom, 70 degree weather in February, and Chick-fil-A. So we're good.
On a more serious note, there is one distinction in particular between Americans and Brits - generally speaking - that we'd like to share today: views on the enviornment.
This is a somewhat hot-button topic in American politics. If you haven't followed this debate in recent years (due to being in Timbuktu or Siberia, of course), the broad break-down in opinion follows:
LIBERALS: Followers of Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth. We've destroyed our environment, if we don't act now the earth will be inhabitable within 24 hours, yada yada.
CONSERVATIVES: Inherently dislike Al Gore and therefore reject anything he publishes. The economy is more important than the environment, there is no proof of harm anyway, blah blah.
Enlgand, however, is over this debate. They've, ahem, sided with liberals here. Now before all you conservative readers stop reading, let's rethink this whole issue for just a minute, as my husband and I did while living in Oxford. We confess to having not carefully considered the issue before; but once we did, the results were interesting:
For Christians, why did this turn into a political debate in the first place? And how in the world did most Christians (the so-called "right-wing evangelicals" and such) end up on the "we don't really care about the enviornment" side? Seriously. Let's go back to the basics.
"God created the great sea creatures and every living creature that moves, with which the waters swarmed after their kind, and every winged bird after its kind; and God saw that it was good....God made the beasts of the earth after their kind, and the cattle after their kind, and everything that creeps on the ground after its kind; and God saw that it was good." (Genesis Chapter 1)
Notice the pattern? God creates. It's good. God creates. It's good.
Then what does he do when humans enter the picture? He gives us the entire earth. To subdue it, to care for it, to tend it. In a way, we (mankind) are the governors of the world. We are not the ultimate ruler, but we definitely have some authority, at least for now. The question is, how do we use that authority?
Somehow, I'm fairly certain the answer should NOT be to trash the earth without regard to its future. No, we are called - yes CALLED - to care for the earth. So whether or not Al Gore is "making up" enviornmental drama is not the point. It doesn't matter if the Earth will self-destruct in 1 year or 1,000,000,000,000 years. We have responsibilities to do the best job we can as 'governors' of the world today.
The environmental debate is still important scientifically, of course. (And may I encourage you to read the scientists themselves on this issue, not news columnists or politicians who can filter the data one way or the other?) But again, the truth or falsity of An Inconvenient Truth should not be our basis for how we view environmentalism. Look to higher standards of Truth.
Practically, what does this look like? Well, we're still working on that part. But little things do add up, so why don't we all start by trying to waste less? Let's reuse and recycle, as Captain Planet always encouraged us as children. (And let's "take pollution down to zero" while we're at it! Just kidding.)
Food for thought....
And Jonathan wanted to include a note:
Save the polar bears.
Repetition anyone?
Check this out; I don't think you could be more repetitive. Check this out:
“It’s exciting new evidence of something new and exciting going on in the universe.”
That from an article in the NY Times, but at least the words did not belong to the journalist. At least the words were symmetric in placement.
I don't think you could be more repetitive!
“It’s exciting new evidence of something new and exciting going on in the universe.”
That from an article in the NY Times, but at least the words did not belong to the journalist. At least the words were symmetric in placement.
I don't think you could be more repetitive!
More Words!
Well, moving certainly does throw off blog writing, does it not? But let me tell you of a few interesting things about English before the move. We move next week, so it may be another couple of weeks before I start writing normally, but I shall return!! (Though not to the Philippines, as some may suspect. (yes, I know that is a fragment.))
I have recently become enthralled with British place names and the fact that they almost always mean something. In America, developers just throw down names for their subdivision streets around some randomly chosen theme. If the theme is Woodland Parke, then we could have Chestnut Grove Lane, Oakhurst Drive, Ashford Down Avenue, and the like, and it means nothing at all. Just random names. In England, however, since people have been here for quite some time, the names of places mean something. So for instance, Oxford is where the water was shallow enough for the oxen to ford the river (the Thames that is, I think - there are three rivers here: Thames, Isis, and Cherwell). So here are some interesting things about British place names and a basic key. First let me list out some of the most common prefixes and suffixes.
-ham: this means farm or homestead
-don: hill
-ton: town
-ing: the people of, kin of, (from OE ingas)
So if you see -ingham that normally means, the home of (someone's) kin. Birmingham, then, might be the place where someone named Birm or Beorma or something similar had their farm and lands. Wallingford, where some friends of ours live, would be the place where Wealh (this time I know the proper Old English name) and his folks had a ford. It's all quite wonderful really. But sometimes there are tricks. For instance, most every name that sounds like Wickum in England comes from OE wicham, which means something about someone's village. However, there is one High Wycombe that did not fit that pattern in the old surveys. Some suggest it has an obscure root, I personally think the simplest answer is often right, and the simple answer is that there is a river Wye (not the main Wye in western England) that flows near there, and a combe is a valley. So the city was likely founded above the valley through which the Wye flowed. But that one is still out for debate.
That is just a small selection, but there are some other types of names that are comical. You see, when the different invaders (Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings, etc) came through and named things as they conquered, they often took the names already given by the locals (the Celtic peoples). But there was much confusion. So where as the word Avon mean "river" in Celtic, the folks coming after thought the Celts were referring to the specific river, so now we have the River Avon, that is, the River river. Or in Leicestershire we have Breedon on the Hill, literally meaning, Hill Hill on the Hill (Bree is OE for hill, don is Celtic for the same). Or Brill, from Bree-hill, again, Hill hill.
Good times.
Anyway, I just wanted to post something since it had been so long. But there is much more where this came from, and perhaps I will post more like it later.
Toodle pip!
I have recently become enthralled with British place names and the fact that they almost always mean something. In America, developers just throw down names for their subdivision streets around some randomly chosen theme. If the theme is Woodland Parke, then we could have Chestnut Grove Lane, Oakhurst Drive, Ashford Down Avenue, and the like, and it means nothing at all. Just random names. In England, however, since people have been here for quite some time, the names of places mean something. So for instance, Oxford is where the water was shallow enough for the oxen to ford the river (the Thames that is, I think - there are three rivers here: Thames, Isis, and Cherwell). So here are some interesting things about British place names and a basic key. First let me list out some of the most common prefixes and suffixes.
-ham: this means farm or homestead
-don: hill
-ton: town
-ing: the people of, kin of, (from OE ingas)
So if you see -ingham that normally means, the home of (someone's) kin. Birmingham, then, might be the place where someone named Birm or Beorma or something similar had their farm and lands. Wallingford, where some friends of ours live, would be the place where Wealh (this time I know the proper Old English name) and his folks had a ford. It's all quite wonderful really. But sometimes there are tricks. For instance, most every name that sounds like Wickum in England comes from OE wicham, which means something about someone's village. However, there is one High Wycombe that did not fit that pattern in the old surveys. Some suggest it has an obscure root, I personally think the simplest answer is often right, and the simple answer is that there is a river Wye (not the main Wye in western England) that flows near there, and a combe is a valley. So the city was likely founded above the valley through which the Wye flowed. But that one is still out for debate.
That is just a small selection, but there are some other types of names that are comical. You see, when the different invaders (Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings, etc) came through and named things as they conquered, they often took the names already given by the locals (the Celtic peoples). But there was much confusion. So where as the word Avon mean "river" in Celtic, the folks coming after thought the Celts were referring to the specific river, so now we have the River Avon, that is, the River river. Or in Leicestershire we have Breedon on the Hill, literally meaning, Hill Hill on the Hill (Bree is OE for hill, don is Celtic for the same). Or Brill, from Bree-hill, again, Hill hill.
Good times.
Anyway, I just wanted to post something since it had been so long. But there is much more where this came from, and perhaps I will post more like it later.
Toodle pip!
Oxonian Observations and Awkward Moments
For those of you who have not heard through the grapevine or the lentil tree, let me begin this long belated post by informing you all that my wife and I will be moving back to Georgia in January. Indeed and verily. I have learned much about myself coming to Oxford, and foremost among my learning is that I do not want to pursue economics professionally. So rather than staying the two years fully aware that I do not want to use this degree for the furtherance of my career (as I erstwhile presumed), we are coming home! I think a job would do me some good to really figure out what to spend the rest of my vocational life doing. Life is full of surprises indeed.
But rather than explain in full to those who already know or those who just don't care, that's all for now. If you want further explanation and storytelling, feel free to email me for the full story.
Having come here expecting two years of good English fun, it is a bit disappointing to leave, but we have had some absolutely lovely little happenings even in this short amount of time. Therein lies the topic of this post. This will be very random, very jumpy, and very JP, for sure. I hope this gives a more complete taste of Britain than did my previous post.
Oxford colleges - 38 bundles of joy with 6 stepsiblings
One of the most distinguishing aspects of Oxford is its colleges. There are 38 of them and an additional 6 private halls, separated because they are religious (which is rather ironic, since nearly all of the colleges were originally founded for the study of religion). But rather than try to describe them all, I like to cluster them into little subgroups based on common traits. There is a bit of overlap, but that's ok. Here is how I think of them:
1) The really old and/or beautiful colleges - this includes, among many others, Merton, Magdalen, Exeter, University, Balliol, and New (one of the oldest, actually). These are the colleges with the most character in my opinion. You should definitely visit them.
2) The uber-rich - a sampling of those with the biggest coffers includes St John's (over £300 million!), All Souls, Nuffield, Queen's, Brasenose, and several others. There's a lot of money floating around Oxford.
3) The Eton boys - let's face it, some colleges have reputations that precede them. I'd prefer not to say which ones though, for fear of my life. Although I must mention one: All Souls. My friend tried to visit there once. He poked his head in the main door and asked the porter if he could look around. The porter responded, "This is All Souls." If that's not snobby, I don't know what is.
4) Jesus and his buddies - as I said, religion was sort of a big deal for many colleges way back in the day: we have Jesus, Christ Church, Corpus Christi (that means body of Christ, if you didn't know), Trinity, St John's, St Catherine's, St Anne's, St Antony's (my college), St Cross, though I do find it funny that the cross is a saint, St Hugh's, St Peter's, and one or two of the private halls.
I assure you that all the colleges, upon their founding, were very concerned about which of these groups they would join.
There is a joke that I enjoy about Christ Church, though I think it could equally apply to other colleges:
How many Christ Church students does it take to screw in a light bulb? 2 - one to call the porter and the other to get suits made for the occasion.
Beware the fire alarm - a tale of dread and disaster
Once upon a time, my college anounced it would have a fire drill. They didn't say when, just which day it would occur. So one morning having just exited the shower, the alarm goes off. My wife was still in her pj's, and I was chillin' with my towel. Knowing it was a drill, neither of us was very keen to run outside half-dressed into the lovely nearly freezing drizzle of England. But while were trying to get quickly dressed, in comes one of the porters right into our flat (blasted master keys).
"YOU COULD BE DEAD!!! YOU COULD BE DEAD!!! YOU COULD BE DEAD!!!" is what greeted us. I kid you not, he shouted it with great perturbation on his face at least ten times, as if we didn't get the point. I really wanted to shout back, "GET OUT OF MY FLAT!!! GET OUT OF MY FLAT!!!" but decided against it. It was very troubling, though.
Now, for the most part, the porters are extremely friendly, happy people, and I like them a lot. But on that morning, this guy was a bit too worked up. I wanted to understand, but everyone knew it was a test, so no one was in a huge hurry to get out of the building, especially half-naked. If the fire alarm went off without warning (as it did for a different test), we would have been much quicker (and we were). Some may say that it's all for the sake of safety, but if that were the case, and they really wanted a quick response and lifelike trial, they wouldn't have had us gather right next to the building (many people were actually leaning against the building). All I have to say is "YOU COULD BE DEAD FROM THE BURNING BUILDING FALLING ON YOUR HEAD!!!" but they didn't seem to care about that possibility.
So beware fire drills.
Walking - the most dangerous thing I have done here (while on the topic of danger)
Using my legs, for a change, has been quite invigorating. I went from walking probably less than 400 yards a day in Georgia to 4 or 5 miles or more a day here in Oxford. It's really nice. That is, if no one is on the sidewalk. If there are two things that stand out about people's manners here, they are that 1) the homeless are extremely friendly and kind and 2) the walkers will run you over without even acknowledging that they have done so. I don't know if they are ridiculous tourists, students, natives, or some of each, but at least twice a week I am slammed into by an extremely rude person who then continues on without the slightest acknowledgement. One time I was honestly pushed into the front wall of store. And even the elderly do it! It's unbelievable. At first I thought I was just really bad at walking, even though I had never struggled with this before. But then it happened a few times when I truly could not have evaded my attacker, and then I knew it wasn't me. Truly bizarre I say.
Aside from those couple times a week, though, walking is fun, except when it's raining and you are carrying groceries. That's really rubbish.
Another thing about walking is that everyone walks with their heads down, staring at the ground (potentially linked to the first problem, though the people plowing through the sidewalks do so even while looking up). For awhile this perplexed me, and given how beautiful the city is, I found it all the more remarkable. I wondered about it one time to my wife, though, and she of course knew the answer. The answer is simple, actually: it's really cold. So everyone wants to cover as much of his face as possible in a warm scarf. Problem solved.
Tweed - the fabric of the ages
Tweed is amazing. I love it. All the professors wear them. Some are truly hideous, strange shades of green or orange. But others are just right, like the ones I got from some good friends just before coming here!
Well-learned coffee shops
The other day I was talking about Swedish with my friend, just your average, everyday conversation. Being a bit overconfident and completely unsure, I postulated that Swedish was, like Finnish, in a different family from the other Scandinavian languages. The fellow sitting just behind my friend then turned around and said, "Actually, you are completely wrong. You couldn't be further from the truth." Never get bold about things you don't know in the Blackwell's coffee shop.
He was wearing tweed, of course.
I actually later ran into the same fellow and found out he came there often to read the work of one of his PhD students. This man was a professor in Armenian Studies, specializing in literature (though he knew a fair bit of linguistics). And the work he was reading was by a 75 year old retired judge. That's awesome. We should all get PhDs in Armenian studies at 75.
Bookstores
One of my favorite things about Oxford is its numerous bookstores. Only here can you find entire bookshelves devoted to Beowulf. That makes me immensely happy.
About a week ago, I picked up a pristine copy of Longfellow's complete poetical works in a used book store. It was published in 1882, the year he died. It has a padded cover. It has inscriptions on the flyleaf that I can't read because they are so nicely written by folks long gone. And best of all, it was only £6. Amazing.
Other
Mincemeat is a sweet mixture of fruit.
There's an El Greco hanging in New College chapel, barely marked, as if it were nothing.
Organs
There are absolutely astounding organs in Oxford. Two of my favorites are in Jesus and Exeter colleges. I often stop by to see if anyone is practicing. It never hurts to have a good rumbling; it's sort of like having all the kinks in your bones popped all at once. Makes me feel like butter.
Well, that's about it.
Oh and some friends made us "toad in the hole" for dinner the other night. It was superb.
But rather than explain in full to those who already know or those who just don't care, that's all for now. If you want further explanation and storytelling, feel free to email me for the full story.
Having come here expecting two years of good English fun, it is a bit disappointing to leave, but we have had some absolutely lovely little happenings even in this short amount of time. Therein lies the topic of this post. This will be very random, very jumpy, and very JP, for sure. I hope this gives a more complete taste of Britain than did my previous post.
Oxford colleges - 38 bundles of joy with 6 stepsiblings
One of the most distinguishing aspects of Oxford is its colleges. There are 38 of them and an additional 6 private halls, separated because they are religious (which is rather ironic, since nearly all of the colleges were originally founded for the study of religion). But rather than try to describe them all, I like to cluster them into little subgroups based on common traits. There is a bit of overlap, but that's ok. Here is how I think of them:
1) The really old and/or beautiful colleges - this includes, among many others, Merton, Magdalen, Exeter, University, Balliol, and New (one of the oldest, actually). These are the colleges with the most character in my opinion. You should definitely visit them.
2) The uber-rich - a sampling of those with the biggest coffers includes St John's (over £300 million!), All Souls, Nuffield, Queen's, Brasenose, and several others. There's a lot of money floating around Oxford.
3) The Eton boys - let's face it, some colleges have reputations that precede them. I'd prefer not to say which ones though, for fear of my life. Although I must mention one: All Souls. My friend tried to visit there once. He poked his head in the main door and asked the porter if he could look around. The porter responded, "This is All Souls." If that's not snobby, I don't know what is.
4) Jesus and his buddies - as I said, religion was sort of a big deal for many colleges way back in the day: we have Jesus, Christ Church, Corpus Christi (that means body of Christ, if you didn't know), Trinity, St John's, St Catherine's, St Anne's, St Antony's (my college), St Cross, though I do find it funny that the cross is a saint, St Hugh's, St Peter's, and one or two of the private halls.
I assure you that all the colleges, upon their founding, were very concerned about which of these groups they would join.
There is a joke that I enjoy about Christ Church, though I think it could equally apply to other colleges:
How many Christ Church students does it take to screw in a light bulb? 2 - one to call the porter and the other to get suits made for the occasion.
Beware the fire alarm - a tale of dread and disaster
Once upon a time, my college anounced it would have a fire drill. They didn't say when, just which day it would occur. So one morning having just exited the shower, the alarm goes off. My wife was still in her pj's, and I was chillin' with my towel. Knowing it was a drill, neither of us was very keen to run outside half-dressed into the lovely nearly freezing drizzle of England. But while were trying to get quickly dressed, in comes one of the porters right into our flat (blasted master keys).
"YOU COULD BE DEAD!!! YOU COULD BE DEAD!!! YOU COULD BE DEAD!!!" is what greeted us. I kid you not, he shouted it with great perturbation on his face at least ten times, as if we didn't get the point. I really wanted to shout back, "GET OUT OF MY FLAT!!! GET OUT OF MY FLAT!!!" but decided against it. It was very troubling, though.
Now, for the most part, the porters are extremely friendly, happy people, and I like them a lot. But on that morning, this guy was a bit too worked up. I wanted to understand, but everyone knew it was a test, so no one was in a huge hurry to get out of the building, especially half-naked. If the fire alarm went off without warning (as it did for a different test), we would have been much quicker (and we were). Some may say that it's all for the sake of safety, but if that were the case, and they really wanted a quick response and lifelike trial, they wouldn't have had us gather right next to the building (many people were actually leaning against the building). All I have to say is "YOU COULD BE DEAD FROM THE BURNING BUILDING FALLING ON YOUR HEAD!!!" but they didn't seem to care about that possibility.
So beware fire drills.
Walking - the most dangerous thing I have done here (while on the topic of danger)
Using my legs, for a change, has been quite invigorating. I went from walking probably less than 400 yards a day in Georgia to 4 or 5 miles or more a day here in Oxford. It's really nice. That is, if no one is on the sidewalk. If there are two things that stand out about people's manners here, they are that 1) the homeless are extremely friendly and kind and 2) the walkers will run you over without even acknowledging that they have done so. I don't know if they are ridiculous tourists, students, natives, or some of each, but at least twice a week I am slammed into by an extremely rude person who then continues on without the slightest acknowledgement. One time I was honestly pushed into the front wall of store. And even the elderly do it! It's unbelievable. At first I thought I was just really bad at walking, even though I had never struggled with this before. But then it happened a few times when I truly could not have evaded my attacker, and then I knew it wasn't me. Truly bizarre I say.
Aside from those couple times a week, though, walking is fun, except when it's raining and you are carrying groceries. That's really rubbish.
Another thing about walking is that everyone walks with their heads down, staring at the ground (potentially linked to the first problem, though the people plowing through the sidewalks do so even while looking up). For awhile this perplexed me, and given how beautiful the city is, I found it all the more remarkable. I wondered about it one time to my wife, though, and she of course knew the answer. The answer is simple, actually: it's really cold. So everyone wants to cover as much of his face as possible in a warm scarf. Problem solved.
Tweed - the fabric of the ages
Tweed is amazing. I love it. All the professors wear them. Some are truly hideous, strange shades of green or orange. But others are just right, like the ones I got from some good friends just before coming here!
Well-learned coffee shops
The other day I was talking about Swedish with my friend, just your average, everyday conversation. Being a bit overconfident and completely unsure, I postulated that Swedish was, like Finnish, in a different family from the other Scandinavian languages. The fellow sitting just behind my friend then turned around and said, "Actually, you are completely wrong. You couldn't be further from the truth." Never get bold about things you don't know in the Blackwell's coffee shop.
He was wearing tweed, of course.
I actually later ran into the same fellow and found out he came there often to read the work of one of his PhD students. This man was a professor in Armenian Studies, specializing in literature (though he knew a fair bit of linguistics). And the work he was reading was by a 75 year old retired judge. That's awesome. We should all get PhDs in Armenian studies at 75.
Bookstores
One of my favorite things about Oxford is its numerous bookstores. Only here can you find entire bookshelves devoted to Beowulf. That makes me immensely happy.
About a week ago, I picked up a pristine copy of Longfellow's complete poetical works in a used book store. It was published in 1882, the year he died. It has a padded cover. It has inscriptions on the flyleaf that I can't read because they are so nicely written by folks long gone. And best of all, it was only £6. Amazing.
Other
Mincemeat is a sweet mixture of fruit.
There's an El Greco hanging in New College chapel, barely marked, as if it were nothing.
Organs
There are absolutely astounding organs in Oxford. Two of my favorites are in Jesus and Exeter colleges. I often stop by to see if anyone is practicing. It never hurts to have a good rumbling; it's sort of like having all the kinks in your bones popped all at once. Makes me feel like butter.
Well, that's about it.
Oh and some friends made us "toad in the hole" for dinner the other night. It was superb.
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