The end of the year, that is. And the first decade of the second millenium. Damn, has it really been ten years?! Hard to believe.
It's nearing 7:30 a.m. as I write this and it's another cold morning. It was 34 when we got up, but it's forecast to get around 67 today. That will be nice. An element broke in our central heating about two years ago, so we suffer through the winter with space heaters. I've got a parabolic sitting about a yard from me at the moment. It gives a nice laser-beam of heat. At the moment, Valenica has parked her furry butt right in front of it. She doesn't care much for the cold, either.
School starts in five days. Five DAYS! I swear it was just yesterday that I was looking forward to the holiday break and all the tasks I'd get done during my down time. And now the semester is just five days away and that to-do list isn't all that much shorter than before the holiday. But that's the life of a grad student - a history grad, anyway.
I really want . . . no need . . . to begin the semester with the first chapter of my thesis written. I have about six pages done. The chapter needs to be around 20. Not good. Not good at all. I'm not sure why it's proving so difficult to write, exactly. I mean, I could sit here and tell you everything I'm including in the chapter, and the argument I'm trying to make. The chapter goes over the social history of Preston from the late eighteenth through the nineteenth centuries. I know that history quite well. And yet, the pages don't come. I find other things to do, or I sit and stare at the screen. This has become my modus operandi for everything I write for school. And frankly, I'm sick of it. I'm not sure what's happened, but it needs to come to an end. I've got way too much writing to do this semester to continually suffer writer's block.
Besides finishing my first chapter by Monday, I have two other chapters and an intro and conclusion to write for my thesis by the end of March. In theory, that's quite doable. But once I'm in the throes of the semester, God only knows how I'll do. I have a graduate seminar course this semester, too. It's on 15th century Europe and will involve a 20-page research paper. I'm thinking of doing something on the War of the Roses. I'd prefer to keep my focus on Preston, but I don't have enough resources available to pursue that (I don't think). My other class, US Readings from Reconstruction, shouldn't have a huge paper to write. Typically, Readings courses have a historiography. It's about 15 pages, but is usually easier to write than a research paper. But the problem with Readings is, well, you do a lot of reading. We're covering a book a week, and all of them are fairly large. I imagine there will be three or four book reviews to write in there, at five pages each, so that will keep me busy. And, of course, I'm teaching three discussion groups again this semester. So I'll need to do all that reading, class prep, grading, etc. Yes, I'm going to be busy. How will I find the time to get everything done? Will this writer's block fade away? I've been struggling with it since last spring. Enough is enough, already!
Oh well, enough kvetching. Sitting here moaning about not getting my writing done does nothing to help me get my writing done! If only my thesis came as easily as this blog!
Happy New Year, everyone. Here's to a happy, healthy, and prosperous 2010 for us all.
30 December 2009
22 December 2009
Merry Christmas!
Okay, so it's still a few days before Christmas. But since I don't post regularly, anymore, I thought I'd extend the holiday wishes now. Otherwise, it's liable to be March and then it'd be a bit late (or insanely early - take your pick).
At this moment, I'm sitting in my ice cold livingroom in front of the new parabolic heater (that Valencia has discovered and is hogging). I should be on campus. The semester's over (got an A in each of my classes - so the horrible Spring semester is officially a fluke), but I work better in the office. I have at least a chapter of my thesis to write over this break, so it's important I be where I'm not distracted. But I allowed myself to get dehydrated and my kidney hurts as a result, so I opted to stay home and work here. So far, I've spent a stupidly long amount of time playing Facebook games and am now writing this blog. Not a lick of work has happened on my thesis. This is a very bad thing, but hardly surprising. It's Christmas time and I want to goof off. But alas, that is not to be this year. Not if I want to keep my sanity and not try to write 80 some odd pages in March.
So, what's been happening? I just finished my first semester as a full-fledged GTA (graduate teaching assistant, not grand theft auto). I taught three classes each Friday. It really wasn't too bad. Some of the kids were annoying, but enough of them were great to make up for the bad eggs. I made mistakes, but I didn't ruin anyone's life. And I lived through it. The only really horrible part was I also had a three-hour class as a student on Friday afternoons. So I taught for three hours and learned for three hours every Friday. It made for a very tiring day.
I wrote two long papers this semester. One was an upgrade of a paper I did at Flagler. The other was about the River Ribble in Preston. I wrote it for my Global Environmental History class. That was the class I had on Fridays, and I took it ONLY because the class I wanted to take was full and I needed a third class. I remember telling my friends that I'd rather "put a gun to my head than take environmental history." That's how much I was not looking forward to it. Funny thing is, I fell in love with the field. Environmental history is not environmentalism. It's more a look at how people and their environments have interacted over the years.
Now, I'm more a social historian. I like looking at how people behaved under certain circumstances. For instance, my master's thesis examines what helped Preston's citizens overcome class barriers in the nineteenth century. Environmental history gives me a new tool with which to study social history. For instance, the Ribble paper I just finished looks at how Preston handled the Rivers Pollution Prevention Act of 1876. It addresses the river pollution, but gives us insight into what was important to the people of Preston during that time frame.
I'm so excited about environmental history that I want it to be a part of my PhD pursuits. And that's the next big thing that's been happening. I have decided to get a doctorate in history. But I don't want to get one in the United States. There are two reasons for this: One, the U.S. program takes 6 to 8 years. You have to spend about four years taking more grad classes, and then work a few more years on researching and writing a dissertation. Two, British history is not a popular field in the U.S. I found one university in an area where we'd like to live that has a British field, but I have to have two majors and two minors and none of the other offerings are anywhere near what interests me. Why should I spend so many years studying something that holds no interest?
On a lark, I looked at PhD programs in England. If I can't find English history here, go to the source, right? I ended up finding a program that perfectly fit. Lancaster University offers a program in Northwest English history. I couldn't believe it. And on top of that, British PhDs take only three years. You don't have to suffer through years of superfluous classes. You take a variety of seminars over the three years, but your focus is your research and writing. How great is that?
Reactions were mixed when I spoke to my professors about going to school in England. All agree that the program is perfect, but apparently the U.S. is a great big snob when it comes to education. Unless I got a PhD from Oxford or Cambridge, chances are slim that I'd get an academic job here in the U.S. The thing is, I don't even know that I want an academic job. I think I'd rather work for the government. Or in a museum.
After talking it over with Steve and getting his blessing, I applied to a couple of English universities: Lancaster and Manchester. I've received a positive response from Lancaster so far. They've requested a writing sample, which they supposedly wouldn't do if they weren't interested in me. The program coordinator at Lancaster told me that I have a "strong" application with outstanding references. So, I rather think I will get accepted. But that's just the first hurdle. The next is the crucial one and I won't know anything about it until March or April, and it's funding. I don't want to take out any more student loans. So the only way I can go to school in England is if I get funding from the school. My hope and prayer is that I am awarded a teaching assistantship - like what I have now. That way my tuition and fees are covered, and I'll get a stipend in exchange for me teaching a few undergrad history classes. Prayers and good thoughts are appreciated. I can't express how much I want this.
If it all comes true, then when I graduate from UNF at the end of July, Steve and I will be going to England for a few years. After spending the summer there, I'm ready for the adventure of full-time English living. Granted, I'm sure I will miss the sunshine. And I know full well the winter darkness will do in my head. I'll definitely have to have a sun lamp in the house to keep my spirits up when the daylight is only around from about 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. But I really want to live in England for awhile. I want to have time with that side of the family. I want British citizenship.
Of course, Steve has mixed feelings about it all, and it makes sense. We have built a life here. Leaving it behind will be a jolt. But the way I see it, we've been talking about relocating, anyway. Basically, we're already planning to uproot our life and start fresh. I'm just of the mind that if we're going to do it, go all the way. Plus, this gives Steve a chance to further his education, as well. And we're only talking about a few years: Three for me to get my degree, and then maybe a couple more to allow the degree to gain me some employment. I'll have an easier time coming back to the states with a British PhD if I have some employment credentials to back it up.
But for now, it's still just a dream. My biggest fear is that I will get accepted at Lancaster, but won't get funding. And because it's all still up in the air, we've not talked about it much with the English side of the family. We don't want to get hopes up. Me blogging about it is bad enough. At least here I can emphasize that this isn't yet reality. It could be as late as March or April before I know.
So for now, I need to just focus on finishing my master's degree. Which means I should quit blogging and get to work on my thesis. That chapter is not going to write itself - even though I keep leaving it alone in hopes that it will.
Until next time . . . Merry Christmas!
At this moment, I'm sitting in my ice cold livingroom in front of the new parabolic heater (that Valencia has discovered and is hogging). I should be on campus. The semester's over (got an A in each of my classes - so the horrible Spring semester is officially a fluke), but I work better in the office. I have at least a chapter of my thesis to write over this break, so it's important I be where I'm not distracted. But I allowed myself to get dehydrated and my kidney hurts as a result, so I opted to stay home and work here. So far, I've spent a stupidly long amount of time playing Facebook games and am now writing this blog. Not a lick of work has happened on my thesis. This is a very bad thing, but hardly surprising. It's Christmas time and I want to goof off. But alas, that is not to be this year. Not if I want to keep my sanity and not try to write 80 some odd pages in March.
So, what's been happening? I just finished my first semester as a full-fledged GTA (graduate teaching assistant, not grand theft auto). I taught three classes each Friday. It really wasn't too bad. Some of the kids were annoying, but enough of them were great to make up for the bad eggs. I made mistakes, but I didn't ruin anyone's life. And I lived through it. The only really horrible part was I also had a three-hour class as a student on Friday afternoons. So I taught for three hours and learned for three hours every Friday. It made for a very tiring day.
I wrote two long papers this semester. One was an upgrade of a paper I did at Flagler. The other was about the River Ribble in Preston. I wrote it for my Global Environmental History class. That was the class I had on Fridays, and I took it ONLY because the class I wanted to take was full and I needed a third class. I remember telling my friends that I'd rather "put a gun to my head than take environmental history." That's how much I was not looking forward to it. Funny thing is, I fell in love with the field. Environmental history is not environmentalism. It's more a look at how people and their environments have interacted over the years.
Now, I'm more a social historian. I like looking at how people behaved under certain circumstances. For instance, my master's thesis examines what helped Preston's citizens overcome class barriers in the nineteenth century. Environmental history gives me a new tool with which to study social history. For instance, the Ribble paper I just finished looks at how Preston handled the Rivers Pollution Prevention Act of 1876. It addresses the river pollution, but gives us insight into what was important to the people of Preston during that time frame.
I'm so excited about environmental history that I want it to be a part of my PhD pursuits. And that's the next big thing that's been happening. I have decided to get a doctorate in history. But I don't want to get one in the United States. There are two reasons for this: One, the U.S. program takes 6 to 8 years. You have to spend about four years taking more grad classes, and then work a few more years on researching and writing a dissertation. Two, British history is not a popular field in the U.S. I found one university in an area where we'd like to live that has a British field, but I have to have two majors and two minors and none of the other offerings are anywhere near what interests me. Why should I spend so many years studying something that holds no interest?
On a lark, I looked at PhD programs in England. If I can't find English history here, go to the source, right? I ended up finding a program that perfectly fit. Lancaster University offers a program in Northwest English history. I couldn't believe it. And on top of that, British PhDs take only three years. You don't have to suffer through years of superfluous classes. You take a variety of seminars over the three years, but your focus is your research and writing. How great is that?
Reactions were mixed when I spoke to my professors about going to school in England. All agree that the program is perfect, but apparently the U.S. is a great big snob when it comes to education. Unless I got a PhD from Oxford or Cambridge, chances are slim that I'd get an academic job here in the U.S. The thing is, I don't even know that I want an academic job. I think I'd rather work for the government. Or in a museum.
After talking it over with Steve and getting his blessing, I applied to a couple of English universities: Lancaster and Manchester. I've received a positive response from Lancaster so far. They've requested a writing sample, which they supposedly wouldn't do if they weren't interested in me. The program coordinator at Lancaster told me that I have a "strong" application with outstanding references. So, I rather think I will get accepted. But that's just the first hurdle. The next is the crucial one and I won't know anything about it until March or April, and it's funding. I don't want to take out any more student loans. So the only way I can go to school in England is if I get funding from the school. My hope and prayer is that I am awarded a teaching assistantship - like what I have now. That way my tuition and fees are covered, and I'll get a stipend in exchange for me teaching a few undergrad history classes. Prayers and good thoughts are appreciated. I can't express how much I want this.
If it all comes true, then when I graduate from UNF at the end of July, Steve and I will be going to England for a few years. After spending the summer there, I'm ready for the adventure of full-time English living. Granted, I'm sure I will miss the sunshine. And I know full well the winter darkness will do in my head. I'll definitely have to have a sun lamp in the house to keep my spirits up when the daylight is only around from about 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. But I really want to live in England for awhile. I want to have time with that side of the family. I want British citizenship.
Of course, Steve has mixed feelings about it all, and it makes sense. We have built a life here. Leaving it behind will be a jolt. But the way I see it, we've been talking about relocating, anyway. Basically, we're already planning to uproot our life and start fresh. I'm just of the mind that if we're going to do it, go all the way. Plus, this gives Steve a chance to further his education, as well. And we're only talking about a few years: Three for me to get my degree, and then maybe a couple more to allow the degree to gain me some employment. I'll have an easier time coming back to the states with a British PhD if I have some employment credentials to back it up.
But for now, it's still just a dream. My biggest fear is that I will get accepted at Lancaster, but won't get funding. And because it's all still up in the air, we've not talked about it much with the English side of the family. We don't want to get hopes up. Me blogging about it is bad enough. At least here I can emphasize that this isn't yet reality. It could be as late as March or April before I know.
So for now, I need to just focus on finishing my master's degree. Which means I should quit blogging and get to work on my thesis. That chapter is not going to write itself - even though I keep leaving it alone in hopes that it will.
Until next time . . . Merry Christmas!
02 September 2009
Reflection
I started a blow-by-blow blog of our wonderful trip to Marco Island some time ago, but school has started and I've just not finished it. I was also going to write a blog talking about my first go at teaching. But I got news this morning that has stopped me in my tracks - Suzy Musson, a girl I knew in high school, passed away.
I've lost other high school friends before. One died in a horrific motorcycle accident and another succumbed to AIDS. Oddly, this death hits me a lot harder. It's not that I was closer to Suzy than I was to the others. I wasn't. We were in the same grade and in band together. She was fun to be around and we got along great within that band circle. But we weren't friends beyond it. So, I think Suzy's death impacts me more because the others died when we were still fairly young. Their deaths were a tragic rarity in the halcyon days of youth. I'm now middle-aged (a phrase I have difficulty describing myself with, I admit), so when a former classmate passes now it's bigger. It's still tragic and sad, but, alas, less rare. And it will only become less rare as time marches on. A death happening within my old high school circle now is just a big, fat reminder that I'm not all that young, anymore, and at least half my life is now behind me. What a sobering thought.
Of course, most of the time I feel like I'm just starting life. I'm in school and I'm thinking about careers. Sure, I own my home and I've been married ten years, but life still seems like it should be fresh and new and ready to be harnassed. It's always a bit of a let down when I have think that if I were to go for a PhD, I'd be 50 before I finished it.
I like being in my little fantasy world where I'm not middle aged and where the world is still my oyster. I can do without my mortality being shoved in my face.
I've lost other high school friends before. One died in a horrific motorcycle accident and another succumbed to AIDS. Oddly, this death hits me a lot harder. It's not that I was closer to Suzy than I was to the others. I wasn't. We were in the same grade and in band together. She was fun to be around and we got along great within that band circle. But we weren't friends beyond it. So, I think Suzy's death impacts me more because the others died when we were still fairly young. Their deaths were a tragic rarity in the halcyon days of youth. I'm now middle-aged (a phrase I have difficulty describing myself with, I admit), so when a former classmate passes now it's bigger. It's still tragic and sad, but, alas, less rare. And it will only become less rare as time marches on. A death happening within my old high school circle now is just a big, fat reminder that I'm not all that young, anymore, and at least half my life is now behind me. What a sobering thought.
Of course, most of the time I feel like I'm just starting life. I'm in school and I'm thinking about careers. Sure, I own my home and I've been married ten years, but life still seems like it should be fresh and new and ready to be harnassed. It's always a bit of a let down when I have think that if I were to go for a PhD, I'd be 50 before I finished it.
I like being in my little fantasy world where I'm not middle aged and where the world is still my oyster. I can do without my mortality being shoved in my face.
13 August 2009
Impressions of Marco Island
We arrived yesterday around 6:30 p.m. - in time for a stroll on the beach at sunset. Our resort is right on the Gulf, and our balcony overlooks the beach, so we're in a great spot to enjoy the sun and sand.
Observations:
The beach is insanely white. It's so white it almost glows in the dark (which is pretty complete, since it's turtle season and no lights are allowed at night).
The beach sand is really coarse. That's because it's actually crushed shells. It's not as coarse as the crushed "sand" on Mickler Beach, but not as fine as the sand on Fernandina Beach.
Most of the shells are stark white, like the beach. At least those that were washed up near the high tide line. Low tide isn't until later. Maybe there will be more color. But except for a splash of pink or purple from the calico scallops, the shells are white.
The beach is really flat. Steve says it's probably because there aren't massive waves breaking on shore and stirring things up like on the Atlantic coast.
And my final observation this morning before we go for a pre-breakfast walk on the beach: The same lack of onshore wind that denies the Gulf those waves in the summer also means there's no cooling ocean breeze here. It's humid. Hot and humid.
Time for that walk now . . .
Observations:
The beach is insanely white. It's so white it almost glows in the dark (which is pretty complete, since it's turtle season and no lights are allowed at night).
The beach sand is really coarse. That's because it's actually crushed shells. It's not as coarse as the crushed "sand" on Mickler Beach, but not as fine as the sand on Fernandina Beach.
Most of the shells are stark white, like the beach. At least those that were washed up near the high tide line. Low tide isn't until later. Maybe there will be more color. But except for a splash of pink or purple from the calico scallops, the shells are white.
The beach is really flat. Steve says it's probably because there aren't massive waves breaking on shore and stirring things up like on the Atlantic coast.
And my final observation this morning before we go for a pre-breakfast walk on the beach: The same lack of onshore wind that denies the Gulf those waves in the summer also means there's no cooling ocean breeze here. It's humid. Hot and humid.
Time for that walk now . . .
11 August 2009
Belated anniversary trip
Steve's working a half day tomorrow and then we're setting off for Marco Island for a short vacation and belated celebration of our tenth anniversary. I was in England for our actual anniversary and more interested in just being home when I first came back, so we're finally getting around to just getting away.
I've never been to Marco Island. It's part of the Ten Thousand Islands area of Florida, south of Naples. As a barrier island, it has good shelling (though not as good as that at Sanibel and Captiva islands), and that's the main draw. I seem to have been bitten by the shelling bug lately, so I'm looking forward to a couple of days in an area boasting a better selection than what we have here on the First Coast.
Our resort is right on the beach. And it being the Gulf, there's not a lot of wave action, so we can do a bit of snorkeling. I came across an optical mask in Sports Authority over the weekend. It's only about half my eyeglass prescription strength, but with the way light refracts underwater, it's enough correction that I can see a couple of feet when I snorkel. So Steve and I are looking forward to doing a bit of exploring that way. Though I must admit that I have no intention of getting too far from shore. I know there are sharks out there.
We're only there for three nights and I wish we could stay longer. But I'm happy for the time we're getting and excited about the trip. I think it's going to be a nice way to belatedly mark ten years of a good, shared life.
I've never been to Marco Island. It's part of the Ten Thousand Islands area of Florida, south of Naples. As a barrier island, it has good shelling (though not as good as that at Sanibel and Captiva islands), and that's the main draw. I seem to have been bitten by the shelling bug lately, so I'm looking forward to a couple of days in an area boasting a better selection than what we have here on the First Coast.
Our resort is right on the beach. And it being the Gulf, there's not a lot of wave action, so we can do a bit of snorkeling. I came across an optical mask in Sports Authority over the weekend. It's only about half my eyeglass prescription strength, but with the way light refracts underwater, it's enough correction that I can see a couple of feet when I snorkel. So Steve and I are looking forward to doing a bit of exploring that way. Though I must admit that I have no intention of getting too far from shore. I know there are sharks out there.
We're only there for three nights and I wish we could stay longer. But I'm happy for the time we're getting and excited about the trip. I think it's going to be a nice way to belatedly mark ten years of a good, shared life.
28 July 2009
Lesson learned
I will have been home three weeks tomorrow. I think I'm finally settling back into being home. What I've not settled into is the notion that I'm back in school in less than a month. To me, summer vacation just began! How can it possibly be nearly time for classes to resume?
So I stress a bit when I think of the things I need to get done before school hits. And I stress more when I look at our weekends. Each one keeps getting booked with something, so it feels like time is moving along that much faster. Slow down already!
Tomorrow also marks the departure of our friends, Melanie and Will. They're moving to Virginia and will be sorely missed. Steve met Mel through work a couple of years ago and they became fast friends. The four of us got together when we could. Will travels a lot for work, so it wasn't as often as we would have liked. But we always had a great time, so there was quality time, if not a quantity of it. But Mel and I didn't spend any time together until after I got back from England. There was always the hope to, but she had work and I had school and we just never managed to coordinate our schedules. I even had a standing invitation to go to her house to decompress during a school day, because she lived only five minutes from campus. But I never took her up on it.
Then, shortly before I left for England, we found out Will was being transferred. Suddenly time was short and very precious. Steve hung with them at least once whilst I was away, but it was my return that really put a priority on it. Mel and I spent two afternoons together on the beach collecting sharks' teeth and shells. And she introduced me to the surprisingly enjoyable work of shell crafting (I find it very relaxing - much in the same way as constructing a quilt top). We had one last dinner out, and tomorrow they're gone.
Yes, we'll go see them in Virginia. So it's not like we'll never lay eyes upon them again. And we're all on Facebook, so we'll be in touch. But it's not the same. I truly regret not making more time to spend more time with Melanie. I allowed school to consume me. Yes, school is important, but so are friends. This situation has reminded me that the time we have together isn't going to last forever. There isn't always going to be a tomorrow. So, it's so very important that we make time to be with the people we care about. That's a big lesson and one I need to keep in mind.
This semester is going to be horrific on my time. I'm carrying 12 hours and teaching three Friday classes. If last year is any indicator, I'll be feeling the time crunch within a couple of weeks and my first inclination is going to be to push off any social interactions. I need to make a concerted effort to remember Melanie and Will, and not be so quick to decline spending time with friends. You just never know when you're going to say good-bye. And really, is a perfect grade or a spic-n-span house really worth more than time with friends? I have a learned, a bit too late in this case, that the answer is no.
So I stress a bit when I think of the things I need to get done before school hits. And I stress more when I look at our weekends. Each one keeps getting booked with something, so it feels like time is moving along that much faster. Slow down already!
Tomorrow also marks the departure of our friends, Melanie and Will. They're moving to Virginia and will be sorely missed. Steve met Mel through work a couple of years ago and they became fast friends. The four of us got together when we could. Will travels a lot for work, so it wasn't as often as we would have liked. But we always had a great time, so there was quality time, if not a quantity of it. But Mel and I didn't spend any time together until after I got back from England. There was always the hope to, but she had work and I had school and we just never managed to coordinate our schedules. I even had a standing invitation to go to her house to decompress during a school day, because she lived only five minutes from campus. But I never took her up on it.
Then, shortly before I left for England, we found out Will was being transferred. Suddenly time was short and very precious. Steve hung with them at least once whilst I was away, but it was my return that really put a priority on it. Mel and I spent two afternoons together on the beach collecting sharks' teeth and shells. And she introduced me to the surprisingly enjoyable work of shell crafting (I find it very relaxing - much in the same way as constructing a quilt top). We had one last dinner out, and tomorrow they're gone.
Yes, we'll go see them in Virginia. So it's not like we'll never lay eyes upon them again. And we're all on Facebook, so we'll be in touch. But it's not the same. I truly regret not making more time to spend more time with Melanie. I allowed school to consume me. Yes, school is important, but so are friends. This situation has reminded me that the time we have together isn't going to last forever. There isn't always going to be a tomorrow. So, it's so very important that we make time to be with the people we care about. That's a big lesson and one I need to keep in mind.
This semester is going to be horrific on my time. I'm carrying 12 hours and teaching three Friday classes. If last year is any indicator, I'll be feeling the time crunch within a couple of weeks and my first inclination is going to be to push off any social interactions. I need to make a concerted effort to remember Melanie and Will, and not be so quick to decline spending time with friends. You just never know when you're going to say good-bye. And really, is a perfect grade or a spic-n-span house really worth more than time with friends? I have a learned, a bit too late in this case, that the answer is no.
07 July 2009
Hard saying good-bye
I'm just back from spending a few hours at the Pear Tree pub with Jackie, Nick, Nikki, Tina, John, Joanne, and Tony. It was a nice evening and a pleasant way to spend my last night here in England. But each time I hugged someone good-bye, I had to fight back tears.
When Steve and I come here on holiday, it's always a bit sad saying good-bye. But this was different. Clearly, I got attached to everyone during my ten weeks' stay. I think I feel more a part of this family than I ever have because of the time I spent here. So, yes, it's quite hard to say good-bye.
At the same time, I am beyond excited to be heading home to Steve tomorrow. I can't imagine how good it's going to be to be back with him. But I'm fretting. The flight today was late enough arriving in Atlanta that if it happens again with my flight tomorrow, I'll miss my connection to Jacksonville. There are three more flights after mine, so I'm sure I'll get out that evening. But having to wait when I'm only an hour's flight away from Steve will be agonizing!
I'm also a bit fretful about the weather. Thunderstorms are forecast. I'm not a happy flyer under the best of conditions. Not having my security blanket with me (aka Steve) makes it that much harder. I'm not sure how well I'd do if we hit storm-related turbulence. Especially after Air France. No, my plane is not an Airbus, but my imagination doesn't really care about that.
And finally, I'm a bix anxious about handling my bags. They're close to their weight limit, but I think I'll be okay there. But I have two carry-ons - my rolling computer bag and a jute shopping bag packed full of goodies for Steve. These bags are heavy and unwieldy. You figure I have to take my computer out to go through security, and take off my shoes, so that will be a nightmare. And then I have to schlep them through two airports and on to two planes. Oh, and in Atlanta, I have to collect by two checked bags and recheck them after I clear customs. Talk about headache!!
I tell you, traveling alone SUCKS! If being away Steve for ten weeks hasn't made me appreciate him more (which it has), then my jaunt through the airports tomorrow will certainly do the trick!
So as I conclude this, my final blog from England, I do so with mixed feelings. I look forward to seeing Steve again, but I truly despair in saying good-bye. Parting really is such sweet sorrow - which makes me glad we're coming back here in May.
When Steve and I come here on holiday, it's always a bit sad saying good-bye. But this was different. Clearly, I got attached to everyone during my ten weeks' stay. I think I feel more a part of this family than I ever have because of the time I spent here. So, yes, it's quite hard to say good-bye.
At the same time, I am beyond excited to be heading home to Steve tomorrow. I can't imagine how good it's going to be to be back with him. But I'm fretting. The flight today was late enough arriving in Atlanta that if it happens again with my flight tomorrow, I'll miss my connection to Jacksonville. There are three more flights after mine, so I'm sure I'll get out that evening. But having to wait when I'm only an hour's flight away from Steve will be agonizing!
I'm also a bit fretful about the weather. Thunderstorms are forecast. I'm not a happy flyer under the best of conditions. Not having my security blanket with me (aka Steve) makes it that much harder. I'm not sure how well I'd do if we hit storm-related turbulence. Especially after Air France. No, my plane is not an Airbus, but my imagination doesn't really care about that.
And finally, I'm a bix anxious about handling my bags. They're close to their weight limit, but I think I'll be okay there. But I have two carry-ons - my rolling computer bag and a jute shopping bag packed full of goodies for Steve. These bags are heavy and unwieldy. You figure I have to take my computer out to go through security, and take off my shoes, so that will be a nightmare. And then I have to schlep them through two airports and on to two planes. Oh, and in Atlanta, I have to collect by two checked bags and recheck them after I clear customs. Talk about headache!!
I tell you, traveling alone SUCKS! If being away Steve for ten weeks hasn't made me appreciate him more (which it has), then my jaunt through the airports tomorrow will certainly do the trick!
So as I conclude this, my final blog from England, I do so with mixed feelings. I look forward to seeing Steve again, but I truly despair in saying good-bye. Parting really is such sweet sorrow - which makes me glad we're coming back here in May.
06 July 2009
By Jove, I think I've got it!
Today was my last day of research, and it was also the day I finally made a break through. Throughout my time here in England, I have been trying to figure out how Preston went from an aristocratic town known for its posh gentility in the 18th century to an overpopulated mill town mired in pollution and poverty just a century later.
In broad strokes, the answer is simple: The Industrial Revolution happened. More specifically, King Cotton happened. But mine is a social history, so I wanted to see when and how society shifted away from the high brow. But I wasn't finding anything definitive. Even when the poor working class outnumbered the middle class and landed gentry by a staggering amount, and pollution left the River Ribble a cesspool, Preston maintained its upper class air (no pun intended).
So, with the guidance of Dr. Furdell, I decided to narrow my focus and look at the amusements in Preston - primarily Preston North End (PNE) Football Club. I got the idea when I visited the National Football Museum with Steve and read a blurb on one of the exhibits that said the football league was a popular diversion for the Victorian working poor, who saw the games as a way to get their minds off their miserable lives.
I would use the history of PNE and the Preston Guild as what Dr. Furdell called "the meat" of my research. The Guild, which dates back to the 11th century, occurs every 20 years. Because it became more of a pageant than a merchant guild in the 19th century, it was a good source of social attitudes.
I read all of the programs and write-ups of each of the guilds from the 19th century. I could see where small activities began for the poor and I saw the introduction of football to the festivities. What I didn't see was any gains by the working class as far as status went. Other than a token few who appeared in the trades processional, the working class was barely even acknowledged.
Today, I decided to extend my research one more guild. I pulled all the records from the 1902 event and began reading. It didn't take me long to discover that I had found what I had been looking for! Not only were there more events geared for the working class, with PNE as a prominent participant, but there were souvenir books of the Guild clearly designed for the working class. The "Official Record," which was dedicated to that year's Guild Mayor, the Earl of Derby, still boasted the flowerly, high-faluting language I had grown accustomed to reading in the Guild literature. But other books were clearly aimed at the everyday man; with articles about PNE, funny stories, and tongue-in-cheek songs. More workers participated in the processional, and they even had a ribald Torchlight processional that would easily have disturbed the sensibilities of the aristocratic Prestonian.
On what was going to be my last day of research, regardless of what I found, I finally found the proof I've been looking for. And for the first time, I know where I'm going with my paper. It's both exciting and a major relief.
In broad strokes, the answer is simple: The Industrial Revolution happened. More specifically, King Cotton happened. But mine is a social history, so I wanted to see when and how society shifted away from the high brow. But I wasn't finding anything definitive. Even when the poor working class outnumbered the middle class and landed gentry by a staggering amount, and pollution left the River Ribble a cesspool, Preston maintained its upper class air (no pun intended).
So, with the guidance of Dr. Furdell, I decided to narrow my focus and look at the amusements in Preston - primarily Preston North End (PNE) Football Club. I got the idea when I visited the National Football Museum with Steve and read a blurb on one of the exhibits that said the football league was a popular diversion for the Victorian working poor, who saw the games as a way to get their minds off their miserable lives.
I would use the history of PNE and the Preston Guild as what Dr. Furdell called "the meat" of my research. The Guild, which dates back to the 11th century, occurs every 20 years. Because it became more of a pageant than a merchant guild in the 19th century, it was a good source of social attitudes.
I read all of the programs and write-ups of each of the guilds from the 19th century. I could see where small activities began for the poor and I saw the introduction of football to the festivities. What I didn't see was any gains by the working class as far as status went. Other than a token few who appeared in the trades processional, the working class was barely even acknowledged.
Today, I decided to extend my research one more guild. I pulled all the records from the 1902 event and began reading. It didn't take me long to discover that I had found what I had been looking for! Not only were there more events geared for the working class, with PNE as a prominent participant, but there were souvenir books of the Guild clearly designed for the working class. The "Official Record," which was dedicated to that year's Guild Mayor, the Earl of Derby, still boasted the flowerly, high-faluting language I had grown accustomed to reading in the Guild literature. But other books were clearly aimed at the everyday man; with articles about PNE, funny stories, and tongue-in-cheek songs. More workers participated in the processional, and they even had a ribald Torchlight processional that would easily have disturbed the sensibilities of the aristocratic Prestonian.
On what was going to be my last day of research, regardless of what I found, I finally found the proof I've been looking for. And for the first time, I know where I'm going with my paper. It's both exciting and a major relief.
05 July 2009
Three more get-ups
And by get-ups, I don't mean outfits or costumes. I mean mornings - as in when I awaken in the morning, I get up. After three more get-ups, I am heading home. Emotionally I am beyond ready to go home. I've enjoyed my time here and I love being around the family. I will miss England. But my home I keenly miss Steve, so I am very happy to be going home.
Of course, now that I'm down to my last few days, I am very aware of the number of things I wanted to do, but didn't. The biggie is the Preston church tour. There are many churches here dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries. I wanted to finally go see them, inside and out. Especially St. Walburge's. But I will not have time. I need to hit the Lancashire Records Office one more time, because I thought of some more info to look for. So I need a day for that, which leaves me Tuesday for packing and saying good-bye to the family.
Jackie and Nick told me that the interior of St. Wilfrid's (the church I stumbled upon in that alley and in which I didn't feel comfortable going) cannot be missed. I should have enough time to duck in there when I'm done at the LRO. So at least one Preston church will get my attention this trip. I'll just have to visit them next year when Steve and I return.
Another thing I may not be doing is having a final Indian meal. Indian food here in England is very different that in America and I much prefer to what I can get back home. I've only had a few Indian meals since I've been here and really wanted one more for the road, but I don't know if I'll be able to.
I also wanted to get to the Lamb and Packet one last time. It's the pub where Steve's sister-in-law works on the weekends. It's not that I love the pub or anything - though it is nice and I do like people watching there. I wanted to see if I could convince the owner or manager to sell me one of their Foster pint glasses, so I could take it home to Steve. Steve doesn't like Fosters, but the glass is really cool. And Steve has taken to collecting English pub glasses, so it would have been a nice addition.
It's kind of funny. When I arrived here nearly ten weeks ago, I had a long To Do list and thought I had plenty of time to get to every section. Now that I'm gearing up for the trip home, I see ten weeks simply wasn't enough. But that's how it always is, isn't it? You never quite have enough time to get everything done. It's a regrettable state of affairs.
But then, after three more get-ups (and over half a day of travel) I will be back in Steve's arms with nary a thought for any regrets.
Of course, now that I'm down to my last few days, I am very aware of the number of things I wanted to do, but didn't. The biggie is the Preston church tour. There are many churches here dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries. I wanted to finally go see them, inside and out. Especially St. Walburge's. But I will not have time. I need to hit the Lancashire Records Office one more time, because I thought of some more info to look for. So I need a day for that, which leaves me Tuesday for packing and saying good-bye to the family.
Jackie and Nick told me that the interior of St. Wilfrid's (the church I stumbled upon in that alley and in which I didn't feel comfortable going) cannot be missed. I should have enough time to duck in there when I'm done at the LRO. So at least one Preston church will get my attention this trip. I'll just have to visit them next year when Steve and I return.
Another thing I may not be doing is having a final Indian meal. Indian food here in England is very different that in America and I much prefer to what I can get back home. I've only had a few Indian meals since I've been here and really wanted one more for the road, but I don't know if I'll be able to.
I also wanted to get to the Lamb and Packet one last time. It's the pub where Steve's sister-in-law works on the weekends. It's not that I love the pub or anything - though it is nice and I do like people watching there. I wanted to see if I could convince the owner or manager to sell me one of their Foster pint glasses, so I could take it home to Steve. Steve doesn't like Fosters, but the glass is really cool. And Steve has taken to collecting English pub glasses, so it would have been a nice addition.
It's kind of funny. When I arrived here nearly ten weeks ago, I had a long To Do list and thought I had plenty of time to get to every section. Now that I'm gearing up for the trip home, I see ten weeks simply wasn't enough. But that's how it always is, isn't it? You never quite have enough time to get everything done. It's a regrettable state of affairs.
But then, after three more get-ups (and over half a day of travel) I will be back in Steve's arms with nary a thought for any regrets.
03 July 2009
Carlisle churches
I wanted to post all of my cathedral photos here. But I quickly realized that I took too many to do that. And that's with me not taking as many photos as I would have liked. In reading the book I picked up on the cathedral after-the-fact, I discovered a number of things I missed. (Guess who's going back next year!)
So I was forced to post my photos on Facebook again. Click here to have a look at them.
The cathedral was a beautiful place. It left me feeling serene and comfortable - the way a church should. St. Cuthbert's was just a few minutes' walk up the road from the cathedral, but it was a world away. I didn't go inside this church, because it's outside left me feeling cold and uncomfortable.
If you haven't done so, yet, click on the link above and take a look at Carlisle Cathedral. Then come back here and take a look at St. Cuthbert's.
As I was strolling around the cathedral grounds on the hunt for historical treasure, I spotted a sign that indicated a St. Cuthbert's Church off to the southwest. I followed the sign and could see what appeared to be a church tucked back behind a hotel, but I saw no way to actually get to it. So I left the cathedral grounds, walked down the street a bit, and hunted for another sign of the church. Down one alley, I saw its roof and headed toward it.
The church sits square to the old Roman road and is believed to be built on a foundation that predates Cuthbert's visit to Carlisle in 685 AD. This is the fourth church to be built on this site and dates to 1778.
The church didn't look like much. The hotel next to it had a heavy-duty iron gate across its carpark access. The convertible in the photo had stopped, because the driver needed to close the gate. That was pretty intense security for what seemed a nice little neighborhood.
The sign announcing St. Cuthbert's indicated it was both Anglican and Methodist. Later research revealed that when the local Methodist church lost its hall, St. Cuthbert's offered the congregation use of its tithebarn. So both congregations reside on the same property.
As I entered the church grounds, I spotted another sign. This one warned me that use of the footpath was at my own risk. I initially thought it was because the stones were loose and/or uneven, but it was a perfectly good path. And then I saw the barbed wire.
Barbed wire topped the entire wall around the church. Not only that, but broken glass was strewn along the wall, as well. What I couldn't decide was if the glass was part of the deterent, or left from those the church was trying to keep out. Whatever it was, it was unpleasant.
Both the cathedral and St. Cuthbert's grounds attracted people having lunch on the grass or sitting under a tree reading. The difference was that the cathedral had families and even business people enjoying the grounds, but St. Cuthbert's attracted clumps of rough-looking teenagers. That put me on my guard, especially when a great number of them watched me enter. But what really gave me the creeps was the grave stones. They were lined up along all the walls. It didn't take me long to realize that they weren't marking actual graves. They were just the headstones.
The movie "Poltergeist" immediately spring to mind: You didn't move the cemetary! You just moved the headstones! (I paraphrase.) It was unsettling to me.
Now I know the bodies are meaningless. But when I visit a cemetary or churchyard, I always take care not to step on the grave. It's disrespectful to me to do so. And to have headstones without the actual graves was just wrong somehow. Couple that with the barbed wire and glass, and the rough crowd attracted to what was actually a lovely area and you had an atmosphere a world apart from the serenity and comfort of Carlisle Cathedral.
The church was open and I did make it to the door. But I could not go inside. It wasn't because I didn't want to disturb anyone within. It was because I didn't want to get close to whatever it was that attracted such negativity.
I walked quickly away from St. Cuthbert's Church and I did not look back.
So I was forced to post my photos on Facebook again. Click here to have a look at them.
The cathedral was a beautiful place. It left me feeling serene and comfortable - the way a church should. St. Cuthbert's was just a few minutes' walk up the road from the cathedral, but it was a world away. I didn't go inside this church, because it's outside left me feeling cold and uncomfortable.
If you haven't done so, yet, click on the link above and take a look at Carlisle Cathedral. Then come back here and take a look at St. Cuthbert's.
As I was strolling around the cathedral grounds on the hunt for historical treasure, I spotted a sign that indicated a St. Cuthbert's Church off to the southwest. I followed the sign and could see what appeared to be a church tucked back behind a hotel, but I saw no way to actually get to it. So I left the cathedral grounds, walked down the street a bit, and hunted for another sign of the church. Down one alley, I saw its roof and headed toward it.
The church sits square to the old Roman road and is believed to be built on a foundation that predates Cuthbert's visit to Carlisle in 685 AD. This is the fourth church to be built on this site and dates to 1778.
The church didn't look like much. The hotel next to it had a heavy-duty iron gate across its carpark access. The convertible in the photo had stopped, because the driver needed to close the gate. That was pretty intense security for what seemed a nice little neighborhood.
The sign announcing St. Cuthbert's indicated it was both Anglican and Methodist. Later research revealed that when the local Methodist church lost its hall, St. Cuthbert's offered the congregation use of its tithebarn. So both congregations reside on the same property.
As I entered the church grounds, I spotted another sign. This one warned me that use of the footpath was at my own risk. I initially thought it was because the stones were loose and/or uneven, but it was a perfectly good path. And then I saw the barbed wire.
Barbed wire topped the entire wall around the church. Not only that, but broken glass was strewn along the wall, as well. What I couldn't decide was if the glass was part of the deterent, or left from those the church was trying to keep out. Whatever it was, it was unpleasant.
Both the cathedral and St. Cuthbert's grounds attracted people having lunch on the grass or sitting under a tree reading. The difference was that the cathedral had families and even business people enjoying the grounds, but St. Cuthbert's attracted clumps of rough-looking teenagers. That put me on my guard, especially when a great number of them watched me enter. But what really gave me the creeps was the grave stones. They were lined up along all the walls. It didn't take me long to realize that they weren't marking actual graves. They were just the headstones.
The movie "Poltergeist" immediately spring to mind: You didn't move the cemetary! You just moved the headstones! (I paraphrase.) It was unsettling to me.
Now I know the bodies are meaningless. But when I visit a cemetary or churchyard, I always take care not to step on the grave. It's disrespectful to me to do so. And to have headstones without the actual graves was just wrong somehow. Couple that with the barbed wire and glass, and the rough crowd attracted to what was actually a lovely area and you had an atmosphere a world apart from the serenity and comfort of Carlisle Cathedral.
The church was open and I did make it to the door. But I could not go inside. It wasn't because I didn't want to disturb anyone within. It was because I didn't want to get close to whatever it was that attracted such negativity.
I walked quickly away from St. Cuthbert's Church and I did not look back.
02 July 2009
Carlisle photos
It's easier to upload photos on Facebook, so I've put a bunch of Carlisle photos there. Pictures from the wonderful Cathedral and St. Cuthbert's Church will be posted here soon. In the meantime, check out the photos of the castle and other spots in Carlisle here.
29 June 2009
Carlisle
I took a little adventure up to Carlisle today. I have lots of pictures to share and I will in the next blog, along with the usual travelogue-esque commentary. For now, I just want to talk about the actual experience of going to Carlisle.
This was my first solo adventure here in England. Well, I suppose that's not technically true. My research has been a solo adventure, but this was my first trip away from Preston all by my lonesome. And I had a very nice time. But I had issues.
When traveling, I am used to being a pair. I'm also used to Steve carrying most of the stuff, because he's a gentleman like that. Although I wasn't over burdened with stuff, I was carrying a camcorder bag, my handbag, and eventually a carrier bag of purchases. So that was a bit annoying, especially since I pretty much hate carrying anything - including a handbag. But the big issue with me being a onesy and not a pair was I was forced to multitask and I was really bad at it.
My father-in-law offered me his camcorder, thinking I might like making a video of my jaunt. I'm primarily a photograph person, but I took him up on the offer. I figured I could share my video with Steve and my folks when I got home, so they could see a bit of Carlisle, too. I'm usually a pretty good videographer. I use the fade-in and out feature and create a fairly cohesive show. Usually. Today, I discovered that trying to learn the history, take photos of the stuff around me, and video record everything with a running commentary on what I was seeing and what historical data I had thus far gleaned made me a really crap videographer. I botched the fade-in more than once. I rambled. I couldn't remember the names for the different parts of the castle. My 20-minute video is probably a mess. I hope to
God my photos turn out okay.
Other than my multitasking failure, I had a good day. I enjoyed being on my own, but I wasn't really lonely. I carried all kinds of folks in my head. And before that makes me sound too looneytunes, I shall explain. Steve is always on my mind. The longer we're apart, the more I think about him. So I carried Steve with me all throughout the day. I also carried other people at differing times.
When I was exploring Carlisle Castle, I thought of Andrea. It reminded me of a smaller Edinburgh Castle, and as I was snapping a photo of a cannon, I remembered taking Andrea's photo with one of Edinburgh's similar guns. And when I was wandering through Carlisle Cathedral, I thought of both Karen and Dr. Sheffler. Whenever I see an old church, my thoughts immediately go to Karen, because I know how much she likes them. Carlisle Cathedral is a gorgeous church and I found myself trying extra hard to imprint the experience in my mind so I could share it with her here. And Dr. Sheffler sprang to mind when I caught the scent of incense on the air. They had celebrated a Celtic Mass that morning and the incense smoke still clung to the air. Dr. Sheffler had shared how much he loved the smell of the resin incense used in church, so I immediately thought of him. And I now appreciate the scent. It truly is lovely and seems to heighten the spiritual atmosphere.
So even though I was by myself, I really wasn't alone.
Now on to Carlisle itself. Since I was hoofing it, I must say that I have come to appreciate medieval cities. Although modern Carlisle spreads well beyond the original city walls, everything I wanted to see was still within their confines. It was such a pleasure to walk from the train station, which is just outside the southern boundary, to the castle, which is on the northern boundary, in about ten minutes!
I so glad the weather kept me from going yesterday, because there weren't a lot of tourists about. I shared the castle and cathedral with about ten people. Which meant I didn't have to rush to get out of other people's way. I could meander to my heart's content and just revel in Carlisle's historical splendor.
My favorite spot, without a doubt, was the cathedral. It's small compared to other churches I've visited, like Yorkminster. But I think that's to its advantage, because it contained both a feel of grandeur and a sense of intimacy. I would have been happy to sit in there for an hour or two (and almost did later), it felt so . . . comfortable. It's definitely one of my favorite churches. It might even be nestled closely with Yorkminster in the top spot. Which says a lot. York has been my favorite for ten years and no other church has come close. Not Notre Dame, not Westminster.
So all-in-all, Carlisle is a nice place to visit. I will definitely have to return there with Steve some time.
It's funny. I was thinking about this blog on the train ride home. In my head, I wrote such an eloquent piece. Then when I actually sit down to write it, it's not nearly as great as it was in my head. I need to start carrying a notebook with me, methinks. Either that or figure out how to do a telepathic blog.
Tomorrow I return to the Records Office. I will go through all the photos I took today and post them in a blog soon.
This was my first solo adventure here in England. Well, I suppose that's not technically true. My research has been a solo adventure, but this was my first trip away from Preston all by my lonesome. And I had a very nice time. But I had issues.
When traveling, I am used to being a pair. I'm also used to Steve carrying most of the stuff, because he's a gentleman like that. Although I wasn't over burdened with stuff, I was carrying a camcorder bag, my handbag, and eventually a carrier bag of purchases. So that was a bit annoying, especially since I pretty much hate carrying anything - including a handbag. But the big issue with me being a onesy and not a pair was I was forced to multitask and I was really bad at it.
My father-in-law offered me his camcorder, thinking I might like making a video of my jaunt. I'm primarily a photograph person, but I took him up on the offer. I figured I could share my video with Steve and my folks when I got home, so they could see a bit of Carlisle, too. I'm usually a pretty good videographer. I use the fade-in and out feature and create a fairly cohesive show. Usually. Today, I discovered that trying to learn the history, take photos of the stuff around me, and video record everything with a running commentary on what I was seeing and what historical data I had thus far gleaned made me a really crap videographer. I botched the fade-in more than once. I rambled. I couldn't remember the names for the different parts of the castle. My 20-minute video is probably a mess. I hope to
God my photos turn out okay.
Other than my multitasking failure, I had a good day. I enjoyed being on my own, but I wasn't really lonely. I carried all kinds of folks in my head. And before that makes me sound too looneytunes, I shall explain. Steve is always on my mind. The longer we're apart, the more I think about him. So I carried Steve with me all throughout the day. I also carried other people at differing times.
When I was exploring Carlisle Castle, I thought of Andrea. It reminded me of a smaller Edinburgh Castle, and as I was snapping a photo of a cannon, I remembered taking Andrea's photo with one of Edinburgh's similar guns. And when I was wandering through Carlisle Cathedral, I thought of both Karen and Dr. Sheffler. Whenever I see an old church, my thoughts immediately go to Karen, because I know how much she likes them. Carlisle Cathedral is a gorgeous church and I found myself trying extra hard to imprint the experience in my mind so I could share it with her here. And Dr. Sheffler sprang to mind when I caught the scent of incense on the air. They had celebrated a Celtic Mass that morning and the incense smoke still clung to the air. Dr. Sheffler had shared how much he loved the smell of the resin incense used in church, so I immediately thought of him. And I now appreciate the scent. It truly is lovely and seems to heighten the spiritual atmosphere.
So even though I was by myself, I really wasn't alone.
Now on to Carlisle itself. Since I was hoofing it, I must say that I have come to appreciate medieval cities. Although modern Carlisle spreads well beyond the original city walls, everything I wanted to see was still within their confines. It was such a pleasure to walk from the train station, which is just outside the southern boundary, to the castle, which is on the northern boundary, in about ten minutes!
I so glad the weather kept me from going yesterday, because there weren't a lot of tourists about. I shared the castle and cathedral with about ten people. Which meant I didn't have to rush to get out of other people's way. I could meander to my heart's content and just revel in Carlisle's historical splendor.
My favorite spot, without a doubt, was the cathedral. It's small compared to other churches I've visited, like Yorkminster. But I think that's to its advantage, because it contained both a feel of grandeur and a sense of intimacy. I would have been happy to sit in there for an hour or two (and almost did later), it felt so . . . comfortable. It's definitely one of my favorite churches. It might even be nestled closely with Yorkminster in the top spot. Which says a lot. York has been my favorite for ten years and no other church has come close. Not Notre Dame, not Westminster.
So all-in-all, Carlisle is a nice place to visit. I will definitely have to return there with Steve some time.
It's funny. I was thinking about this blog on the train ride home. In my head, I wrote such an eloquent piece. Then when I actually sit down to write it, it's not nearly as great as it was in my head. I need to start carrying a notebook with me, methinks. Either that or figure out how to do a telepathic blog.
Tomorrow I return to the Records Office. I will go through all the photos I took today and post them in a blog soon.
26 June 2009
Stage One complete
I finished my research in the Harris Library today. It was a very weird feeling when I scratched the last item off the list. My time here really is coming to an end. Next week I'm in the Lancashire Records Office. And after that, I'm done. Ten weeks of research will draw to a close. Yes, it's a very weird feeling.
25 June 2009
History of an unexpected sort
When I came to England, I knew I would be knee-deep in history. If I wasn't researching my thesis, I imagined I would be rummaging in the branches of Steve's family tree. And for fun, I was sure I would visit a castle or two - at the very least. What I didn't expect to do this trip was make a journey through my own history. But that is exactly what I did yesterday.
First off, a little background. When I was a youngster, my great uncle Robert Beaumont (my Dad's mother's brother) began researching the family tree. He began with his parents, Albert Saunders Beaumont and Dorothy Darling Beaumont of Massachuseets, and managed to take the branches back beyond the Mayflower. I am descended from several of those brave Pilgrims (such as Isaac Allerton and William Brewster). After Robert's death, other family members continued the work.
When my Aunt Jody (one of Dad's sisters) found out I was visiting the British National Archives during this trip, she suggested I see if I could find anything on one of our English ancestors. Peter Bulkley and his second wife (his first wife died after birthing MANY children) fled to the American colonies after Peter, a church rector, got into trouble for nonconformity. Peter went on to found Concord, Massachusetts, and one of his sons was one of the first graduates of Harvard University. His grandaughter was the mother of Ralph Waldo Emerson. But enough name dropping.
Jody thought that since Peter was essentially run out on a rail that some record about it might exist in the archives. So I said I'd look and I did. But I came up empty. A couple of weeks ago, Jody contacted me with some online research she had done. It turns out that the church in which Peter was rector still stands. On top of that, his notoriety is well documented there. In fact, when the church celebrated an anniversary back in the 80s, the church Peter founded in Concord, MA, donated funds to help with renovations. And several families descended from Peter (the man was quite adept at the whole fathering children thing) have visited the church over the years to pay tribute. Jody said we'd have to go there one day and sign the visitors' book as descendents of Peter.
I thought, 'why wait for one day?' Unfortunately, the village is too remote for me to reach via train or bus, so I contacted Jackie and Nick and asked if they'd be interested in taking a trip down there. Yesterday (Wednesday) we did just that and spent some time in Odell, Bedfordshire, at the All Saints Church.
I took tons of photos, but I'm going to post them at the end of this blog. I want to try and convey my experience without interrupting it with visual commentary.
First off, the village of Odell is quite charming and picturesque. The church sits on a small hill. It dates to the 15th century and, according to the booklet I bought about it, is "described in England's Thousand Best Churches (2001) as 'unrestored and charmingly atmospheric.'" The phrase fits the church to a T, which I think is what gives it its charm.
We parked in the grass outside the church walls and walked into the churchyard. I immediately began checking dates on the gravestones. Although Peter wasn't buried here, his father (also a rector here) was, as was Peter's first wife, and some of his children. Unfortunately, the stones I saw dated to the 19th century. They were too new, because Peter left for America in 1635.
The church usually isn't open during the week and you have to go get the key from the rectory office in town. But as luck would have it, some roof work was going on and the church door was open. So we went inside. The first thing I noticed after I walked inside and wiped my feet on the bristled mat was the massive pipe organ dominating the left end of the church. Above it were the cords that operated the six bells hanging in the tower above. Pews filled most of the space before me, and in the right end of the church was the chancel, which featured some memorials, a beautiful stained glass window and the Table (which I would have called an altar, but have learned from the church handbook is an inaccuracy).
I began walking around the room, snapping photos, and trying to get a feel for the place. I love visiting old churches and I like to open myself up to them. Many, like my fave Yorkminster, have a sense of serenity about them. I feel at peace in most churches and religious places (like stone circles). Others - not so much - because they've been bombarded by tourism and have lost that peaceful quality in the tumult of other energies. But I digress . . .
All Saints had that feeling. But I was looking for more. I was looking for a connection. Members of my long-ago family once sat in that church. Two of them were rectors there and led the congregation. Surely I would find some link to that. But I didn't. As I said to Jackie and Nick, "It feels like a church." But I was excited to be there and went a little crazy with my picture taking. I'm normally picky with what shots I take, but I was just snapping away like a woman possessed. I also did something I don't usually do - I sat for awhile in one of the old pews.
Once I had exhausted my perusal of the interior (which included a plaque naming the past rectors and a print of a portrait of Peter), we went outside and checked out all the gravestones. One thing Jackie commented on as we circled the building was you could tell the windows were original, because they were crooked. It gave the church such a rustic charm seeing such flaws. As for the gravestones - none were earlier than the 19th century. But Nick had it figured out pretty quickly.
In the earlier period, graves weren't marked by vertical headstones. They were covered with flat sheets of engraved stone. Sure enough, along a path near some of the first headstones I had examined, Nick found a flat stone overgrown with grass. After scuffing carefully at it for a bit, we found writing. This grave was also from the 1800s, but it was from an earlier date.
We moved back closer to the church after Nick mentioned earlier graves would be placed nearer the church. Sure enough, he uncovered a couple of flat stones from the 18th century. What broke my heart was mere inches from where Nick uncovered these grave markers stood the church's garbage cans. Grass had grown over the entire area and obscured the graves marked there. More than likely, the graves have been covered over for decades. I knew that I was not going to find any family gravestones this day, and wished I lived nearby so I could volunteer to find them. How many other families are similarly obscured by time? Of course, the current rector probably has a plan somewhere noting where the graves are. He probably figures let them rest in peace.
As we left the church (with me snapping photos until the very end), I was buoyant by the experience. It was a lovely church, and it was nice to have a tie to it. We had lunch at The Bell pub, which is across and just down the road from All Saints. The thatched-roof pub dates to the 17th century and gets its name from the church's bells. We had a nice meal and I took photos inside the pub, which garnered its charm and ambience from its low wood-beamed ceiling.
And then we came home. It's now the next evening and I've had time to reflect on my visit to All Saints. I think the reason that I didn't feel a connection to the church when I was there was because it was just too much to process. What made me an historian was my enthusiasm for historical places and things. When I walk into an old church or castle, I have always bore a thought about the people who once stood where I stood and what their lives were like. For instance, when I see the Traitor's Gate at the Tower of London, I always stop and consider how terrified Princess Elizabeth must have been when she was brought through it to the Tower at her sister's command. So when I was standing in All Saints, my mind was already thinking of the people who once worshipped there. I think it may have been too much to try and fit in the notion that some of those people were family, to boot, and that their history is actually my history, too.
When I sat in the pew yesterday and looked around the church and toward the chancel, I was doing what Peter's wife and children once did. And although the current pulpit and Table date to after Peter's departure, the screen that separates the chancel from the rest of the church dates to the 15th century. So when I walked through the door in the screen, I was walking in the footsteps my ancester took nearly four hundred years earlier. And that, my friends, is an awesome feeling. And one that creates an undeniable connection.
=================================
Here some of the photos I took at All Saints in Odell.
All Saints Church in Odell, Bedfordshire, which dates back to the 15th century. The clock was added in 1820.
The back of All Saints.
Looking toward the chancel.
The Table within the chancel.
Standing in the chancel and looking toward the bell tower.
The pipe organ. Above it are the bell cords, which are really difficult to see.
The pews date to the 17th century, but the seats of these are from the original medieval pews dating to the 15th century.
The plaque listing past rectors. Peter and his father, Edward, are listed in the right column third and second from the top, respectively.
A close-up of the Bulkleys' listings.
A framed print of a portrait of Peter Bulkley.
The bell tower.
One of the crooked windows.
These are the 18th-century graves I mentioned that are next to the garbage bins. Heartbreaking.
The visitor's book that I signed as a descendent, twice-over, of Peter Bulkley. The twice-over is because the children of Peter's son, Gershom, had children who married. So Gershom shows up in my tree on two different branches.
First off, a little background. When I was a youngster, my great uncle Robert Beaumont (my Dad's mother's brother) began researching the family tree. He began with his parents, Albert Saunders Beaumont and Dorothy Darling Beaumont of Massachuseets, and managed to take the branches back beyond the Mayflower. I am descended from several of those brave Pilgrims (such as Isaac Allerton and William Brewster). After Robert's death, other family members continued the work.
When my Aunt Jody (one of Dad's sisters) found out I was visiting the British National Archives during this trip, she suggested I see if I could find anything on one of our English ancestors. Peter Bulkley and his second wife (his first wife died after birthing MANY children) fled to the American colonies after Peter, a church rector, got into trouble for nonconformity. Peter went on to found Concord, Massachusetts, and one of his sons was one of the first graduates of Harvard University. His grandaughter was the mother of Ralph Waldo Emerson. But enough name dropping.
Jody thought that since Peter was essentially run out on a rail that some record about it might exist in the archives. So I said I'd look and I did. But I came up empty. A couple of weeks ago, Jody contacted me with some online research she had done. It turns out that the church in which Peter was rector still stands. On top of that, his notoriety is well documented there. In fact, when the church celebrated an anniversary back in the 80s, the church Peter founded in Concord, MA, donated funds to help with renovations. And several families descended from Peter (the man was quite adept at the whole fathering children thing) have visited the church over the years to pay tribute. Jody said we'd have to go there one day and sign the visitors' book as descendents of Peter.
I thought, 'why wait for one day?' Unfortunately, the village is too remote for me to reach via train or bus, so I contacted Jackie and Nick and asked if they'd be interested in taking a trip down there. Yesterday (Wednesday) we did just that and spent some time in Odell, Bedfordshire, at the All Saints Church.
I took tons of photos, but I'm going to post them at the end of this blog. I want to try and convey my experience without interrupting it with visual commentary.
First off, the village of Odell is quite charming and picturesque. The church sits on a small hill. It dates to the 15th century and, according to the booklet I bought about it, is "described in England's Thousand Best Churches (2001) as 'unrestored and charmingly atmospheric.'" The phrase fits the church to a T, which I think is what gives it its charm.
We parked in the grass outside the church walls and walked into the churchyard. I immediately began checking dates on the gravestones. Although Peter wasn't buried here, his father (also a rector here) was, as was Peter's first wife, and some of his children. Unfortunately, the stones I saw dated to the 19th century. They were too new, because Peter left for America in 1635.
The church usually isn't open during the week and you have to go get the key from the rectory office in town. But as luck would have it, some roof work was going on and the church door was open. So we went inside. The first thing I noticed after I walked inside and wiped my feet on the bristled mat was the massive pipe organ dominating the left end of the church. Above it were the cords that operated the six bells hanging in the tower above. Pews filled most of the space before me, and in the right end of the church was the chancel, which featured some memorials, a beautiful stained glass window and the Table (which I would have called an altar, but have learned from the church handbook is an inaccuracy).
I began walking around the room, snapping photos, and trying to get a feel for the place. I love visiting old churches and I like to open myself up to them. Many, like my fave Yorkminster, have a sense of serenity about them. I feel at peace in most churches and religious places (like stone circles). Others - not so much - because they've been bombarded by tourism and have lost that peaceful quality in the tumult of other energies. But I digress . . .
All Saints had that feeling. But I was looking for more. I was looking for a connection. Members of my long-ago family once sat in that church. Two of them were rectors there and led the congregation. Surely I would find some link to that. But I didn't. As I said to Jackie and Nick, "It feels like a church." But I was excited to be there and went a little crazy with my picture taking. I'm normally picky with what shots I take, but I was just snapping away like a woman possessed. I also did something I don't usually do - I sat for awhile in one of the old pews.
Once I had exhausted my perusal of the interior (which included a plaque naming the past rectors and a print of a portrait of Peter), we went outside and checked out all the gravestones. One thing Jackie commented on as we circled the building was you could tell the windows were original, because they were crooked. It gave the church such a rustic charm seeing such flaws. As for the gravestones - none were earlier than the 19th century. But Nick had it figured out pretty quickly.
In the earlier period, graves weren't marked by vertical headstones. They were covered with flat sheets of engraved stone. Sure enough, along a path near some of the first headstones I had examined, Nick found a flat stone overgrown with grass. After scuffing carefully at it for a bit, we found writing. This grave was also from the 1800s, but it was from an earlier date.
We moved back closer to the church after Nick mentioned earlier graves would be placed nearer the church. Sure enough, he uncovered a couple of flat stones from the 18th century. What broke my heart was mere inches from where Nick uncovered these grave markers stood the church's garbage cans. Grass had grown over the entire area and obscured the graves marked there. More than likely, the graves have been covered over for decades. I knew that I was not going to find any family gravestones this day, and wished I lived nearby so I could volunteer to find them. How many other families are similarly obscured by time? Of course, the current rector probably has a plan somewhere noting where the graves are. He probably figures let them rest in peace.
As we left the church (with me snapping photos until the very end), I was buoyant by the experience. It was a lovely church, and it was nice to have a tie to it. We had lunch at The Bell pub, which is across and just down the road from All Saints. The thatched-roof pub dates to the 17th century and gets its name from the church's bells. We had a nice meal and I took photos inside the pub, which garnered its charm and ambience from its low wood-beamed ceiling.
And then we came home. It's now the next evening and I've had time to reflect on my visit to All Saints. I think the reason that I didn't feel a connection to the church when I was there was because it was just too much to process. What made me an historian was my enthusiasm for historical places and things. When I walk into an old church or castle, I have always bore a thought about the people who once stood where I stood and what their lives were like. For instance, when I see the Traitor's Gate at the Tower of London, I always stop and consider how terrified Princess Elizabeth must have been when she was brought through it to the Tower at her sister's command. So when I was standing in All Saints, my mind was already thinking of the people who once worshipped there. I think it may have been too much to try and fit in the notion that some of those people were family, to boot, and that their history is actually my history, too.
When I sat in the pew yesterday and looked around the church and toward the chancel, I was doing what Peter's wife and children once did. And although the current pulpit and Table date to after Peter's departure, the screen that separates the chancel from the rest of the church dates to the 15th century. So when I walked through the door in the screen, I was walking in the footsteps my ancester took nearly four hundred years earlier. And that, my friends, is an awesome feeling. And one that creates an undeniable connection.
=================================
Here some of the photos I took at All Saints in Odell.
All Saints Church in Odell, Bedfordshire, which dates back to the 15th century. The clock was added in 1820.
The back of All Saints.
Looking toward the chancel.
The Table within the chancel.
Standing in the chancel and looking toward the bell tower.
The pipe organ. Above it are the bell cords, which are really difficult to see.
The pews date to the 17th century, but the seats of these are from the original medieval pews dating to the 15th century.
The plaque listing past rectors. Peter and his father, Edward, are listed in the right column third and second from the top, respectively.
A close-up of the Bulkleys' listings.
A framed print of a portrait of Peter Bulkley.
The bell tower.
One of the crooked windows.
These are the 18th-century graves I mentioned that are next to the garbage bins. Heartbreaking.
The visitor's book that I signed as a descendent, twice-over, of Peter Bulkley. The twice-over is because the children of Peter's son, Gershom, had children who married. So Gershom shows up in my tree on two different branches.
23 June 2009
Visiting the Lake District
Several of Steve's siblings own caravans in the Lake District, and this past weekend Jackie and Nick (Steve's sister and her hubby) invited me to spend the weekend with them at theirs. Tina and John (one of Steve's other sisters and her hubby) were also up there with their youngest, Kiara. The caravan site is in or near Silecroft and is just a few minutes' walk from the sea.
This is the view from the kitchen window of Jackie and Nick's caravan. A thick cloud crowned the summit of the tall hill there for the entire weekend. The hill has a name, but I don't know it.
You hear a lot about the Lake District when you're in England. It's a huge holiday spot reknowned for its incredible beauty. Beatrix Potter lived in the area and worked to preserve it. I agree that it's lovely, but I must admit I didn't see what all the fuss was about. To me, the area was just as pretty as anywhere else in England. And then we took a drive to Keswick and I discovered what all the hoopla is about. As we drove, rolling hills (mountains to this Florida girl) flowed right into pristine lakes. The air had a serenity I could sense even as we roared down the motorway. Keswick sits on a lake and we tried to park near it, but the town was heaving with people and we ended up parking closer to the town centre. So we weren't able to actually walk along the lake. If we had, I would have taken pictures. Instead, you'll just have to trust me that it was beautiful. I would very much like to visit the area again if possible, and maybe spend a day or two along those gorgeous lakes.
On our way to Keswick (pronounced with a silent "w", by the way), Nick spotted a sign mentioning a castle in one of the villages we were passing. He turned off the road to check it out. What he found was Egremont Castle, the ruins of a 12th-century red sandstone castle that served as the seat of the barony of Copeland. It was an unexpected treat on the long drive.
What remains of the curtain wall of the castle.
I also saw several poultry farms along the way with free-range chickens. It's quite bizarre to see acres of fenced pasture land dotted with chickens instead of cows or sheep. In some places, it was chickens AND cows and sheep. I took this photo of a field of Buff Orpingtons (like Hyacinth, Daisy, Rose, Violet, and Onslo at home). It's not a very good photo. The chickens are tiny blobs. But I was in a moving car.
The weather was quite brisk over the weekend, and windy. Despite the chill, I was anxious to take a walk along the seashore when we got back from our trip to Keswick. Nick and John obliged me. I found the walk wonderfully invigorating.
Several men were fishing along the shore. I said to Nick, "Fishing is that good here?" He smiled at me and said, "No."
This is the beach. Not a grain of sand in sight.
Another view of the hill as we walked back from the beach. The gang has climbed that thing.
Some wind generators nearby.
I had a nice weekend away. Much thanks to Jackie and Nick for their hospitality. At long last, I think I understand why folks love the Lake District so much.
This is the view from the kitchen window of Jackie and Nick's caravan. A thick cloud crowned the summit of the tall hill there for the entire weekend. The hill has a name, but I don't know it.You hear a lot about the Lake District when you're in England. It's a huge holiday spot reknowned for its incredible beauty. Beatrix Potter lived in the area and worked to preserve it. I agree that it's lovely, but I must admit I didn't see what all the fuss was about. To me, the area was just as pretty as anywhere else in England. And then we took a drive to Keswick and I discovered what all the hoopla is about. As we drove, rolling hills (mountains to this Florida girl) flowed right into pristine lakes. The air had a serenity I could sense even as we roared down the motorway. Keswick sits on a lake and we tried to park near it, but the town was heaving with people and we ended up parking closer to the town centre. So we weren't able to actually walk along the lake. If we had, I would have taken pictures. Instead, you'll just have to trust me that it was beautiful. I would very much like to visit the area again if possible, and maybe spend a day or two along those gorgeous lakes.
On our way to Keswick (pronounced with a silent "w", by the way), Nick spotted a sign mentioning a castle in one of the villages we were passing. He turned off the road to check it out. What he found was Egremont Castle, the ruins of a 12th-century red sandstone castle that served as the seat of the barony of Copeland. It was an unexpected treat on the long drive.
What remains of the curtain wall of the castle.I also saw several poultry farms along the way with free-range chickens. It's quite bizarre to see acres of fenced pasture land dotted with chickens instead of cows or sheep. In some places, it was chickens AND cows and sheep. I took this photo of a field of Buff Orpingtons (like Hyacinth, Daisy, Rose, Violet, and Onslo at home). It's not a very good photo. The chickens are tiny blobs. But I was in a moving car.
The weather was quite brisk over the weekend, and windy. Despite the chill, I was anxious to take a walk along the seashore when we got back from our trip to Keswick. Nick and John obliged me. I found the walk wonderfully invigorating.
Several men were fishing along the shore. I said to Nick, "Fishing is that good here?" He smiled at me and said, "No."
This is the beach. Not a grain of sand in sight.
Another view of the hill as we walked back from the beach. The gang has climbed that thing.
Some wind generators nearby.I had a nice weekend away. Much thanks to Jackie and Nick for their hospitality. At long last, I think I understand why folks love the Lake District so much.
21 June 2009
Don't even want to think about it just yet
I got an email from Dr. Closmann over the weekend telling me about a GTA symposium being held by the history department in August. I know he sent it to me, because I was the one who first approached him about the issue of not having any kind of training for the next round of GTAs. What's being offered sounds really good and I'm very happy that we're getting some instruction before we're thrown to the wolves. And the reception being held sounds lovely, too.
But I don't want to think about school right now.
All I want to do right now is finish up my research, visit the church my ancestor once ran in Odell, buy whatever goodies I can get into my suitcases without having exceeding my weight allowance, and get home to my sweetie. Once I accomplish that small list of tasks, I would like a nice week of tv time. I have A LOT of shows that need viewing. And, of course, squeeze in as much time with Steve as possible.
After that, I will quite possibly ponder Year 2 of grad school. I have some reading I'd like to do and I do need to get some writing done on my thesis before school even starts. I'm carrying a heavy load of classes this fall AND teaching, so God only knows how I'm going to find any time to actually write my thesis once that hellacious ball gets rolling.
So, yes, I will be thrilled about the symposium.
Just not right now.
But I don't want to think about school right now.
All I want to do right now is finish up my research, visit the church my ancestor once ran in Odell, buy whatever goodies I can get into my suitcases without having exceeding my weight allowance, and get home to my sweetie. Once I accomplish that small list of tasks, I would like a nice week of tv time. I have A LOT of shows that need viewing. And, of course, squeeze in as much time with Steve as possible.
After that, I will quite possibly ponder Year 2 of grad school. I have some reading I'd like to do and I do need to get some writing done on my thesis before school even starts. I'm carrying a heavy load of classes this fall AND teaching, so God only knows how I'm going to find any time to actually write my thesis once that hellacious ball gets rolling.
So, yes, I will be thrilled about the symposium.
Just not right now.
Separation Side Effect
I have developed an unpleasant side effect to being apart from Steve for so long. I have become rude. I have become one of those people surgically attached to their cell phones.
I am not anti-cell phone. I am quite fond of my little "pinkberry" (so called because it's a Blackberry and it's pink - duh). But I find it very rude when people are gathered together and someone spends that time texting or otherwise fiddling with the mobile rather than being engaged with the people with them. That's why I try not to do it. Granted, I'm not perfect with it. When a bunch of us is gathered waiting for our 6 o'clock class to commence, I will take a call from Steve. But in my defense, it's usually because he's on his way home and we've not talked much all day. It's our chance to connect before I head off to class for three hours.
So I suppose it's not really a surprise that I've become a rude cell phone user now that I'm apart from Steve. It's the same mentality as the call before class. I take the time to connect with Steve then, and I use the phone to feel connected to him now. See, my phone has Windows Messenger on it, which is the instant message program Steve and I use to chat. Even though we aren't talking on it 24/7, we stay connected to it, because Steve has it on his phone, too. I find it a comfort to be in Messenger when Steve's in Messenger - even if we're not talking.
Which is what's made me so rude. My phone is with a fairly newish service. As such, coverage isn't fantastic and Messenger drops a lot. So I check the phone a lot to make sure it's still connected. Another problem is that when Steve does send me a message, the phone just vibrates. I don't always feel that, so I pull the phone out of my pocket a lot to make sure I've not missed anything. So between those two alone, I have my phone on me at all times and often in my hand. And, to top it off, if Steve does contact me, I answer him.
Like this past weekend. I was up in the Lakes with Jackie and Nick. Tina, John, and Kiara came over and we had dinner together and watched the telly. I sat the entire time with the phone either in my hand or next to me. And when Steve did message me, I answered right away. Now, often I'd share what Steve was saying with everyone and I never checked messages in the middle of talking to anyone. But still, it was a bit rude.
So, my apologies to everyone who has had to share me with my cell phone lately. Please understand that it's not because I can't stand being away from the Internet. It's because I can't stand being away from Steve. Fear not. This rudeness will disappear in just over two weeks.
I am not anti-cell phone. I am quite fond of my little "pinkberry" (so called because it's a Blackberry and it's pink - duh). But I find it very rude when people are gathered together and someone spends that time texting or otherwise fiddling with the mobile rather than being engaged with the people with them. That's why I try not to do it. Granted, I'm not perfect with it. When a bunch of us is gathered waiting for our 6 o'clock class to commence, I will take a call from Steve. But in my defense, it's usually because he's on his way home and we've not talked much all day. It's our chance to connect before I head off to class for three hours.
So I suppose it's not really a surprise that I've become a rude cell phone user now that I'm apart from Steve. It's the same mentality as the call before class. I take the time to connect with Steve then, and I use the phone to feel connected to him now. See, my phone has Windows Messenger on it, which is the instant message program Steve and I use to chat. Even though we aren't talking on it 24/7, we stay connected to it, because Steve has it on his phone, too. I find it a comfort to be in Messenger when Steve's in Messenger - even if we're not talking.
Which is what's made me so rude. My phone is with a fairly newish service. As such, coverage isn't fantastic and Messenger drops a lot. So I check the phone a lot to make sure it's still connected. Another problem is that when Steve does send me a message, the phone just vibrates. I don't always feel that, so I pull the phone out of my pocket a lot to make sure I've not missed anything. So between those two alone, I have my phone on me at all times and often in my hand. And, to top it off, if Steve does contact me, I answer him.
Like this past weekend. I was up in the Lakes with Jackie and Nick. Tina, John, and Kiara came over and we had dinner together and watched the telly. I sat the entire time with the phone either in my hand or next to me. And when Steve did message me, I answered right away. Now, often I'd share what Steve was saying with everyone and I never checked messages in the middle of talking to anyone. But still, it was a bit rude.
So, my apologies to everyone who has had to share me with my cell phone lately. Please understand that it's not because I can't stand being away from the Internet. It's because I can't stand being away from Steve. Fear not. This rudeness will disappear in just over two weeks.
18 June 2009
Treasure trove
One lesson this trip to England has taught me is that just because a document or book sounds promising does not mean it will hold any value to your research. More often then not, the book or document I am chasing winds up a dead end. Every time I go to the library or records office, I am armed with a long list of items to investigate. When that list is exhausted, I consider myself really lucky if a third of the items prove useful.
On days where I'm not that lucky, I often find myself copying down information "just in case." For instance, I wrote down information from the Earl of Derby's rent receipt books for 1839, 1840, and 1841 "just in case." But, to be honest, I don't see needing to know that Paul Catterall failed to pay his annual chapel pew rental of four pounds in 1839 for my thesis. In reality, the "just in case" is really a so-it-looks-like-I-got-something-accomplished-today maneuver. There's nothing worse than returning from a day of research with only one or two pages of notes.
In light of this trend, I was superpsyched with the amount of usable material I discovered today. Dozens of pages of information that actually will come in handy with my thesis! It was crazy! It was exciting! It came out of . . . a phone book? Okay, not really a phone book. But close. I found a collection of directories from Preston in the nineteenth century. In addition to lists of all the businesses in the town, the directories provided a variety of data, such as the names of the gentry, church information, postal information (including prices), public buildings, and population figures. The collection was an unexpected treasure trove of information. I even found Steve's great-great-great grandfather's listing for his wheelwright shop! I selected directories for three different years spread across the century: 1818 (the earliest one available), 1841, and 1889. This way, I can see the changes in the businesses over the years. In particular, cotton manufacturing and taverns.
I also found a wealth of information about pollution and the River Ribble, including one of four volumes from a commission established by Queen Victoria in 1887 to investigate how to curb pollution in both the Ribble and Mersey rivers. Now this doesn't have anything to do with my thesis, but I've been keeping my eyes open for Ribble info in case it might prove useful for the research paper I'm sure I'm going to have to write for my environmental history class in the fall. So I was really excited to come across this gem - although making copies of the pages I found interesting is going to cost quite a bit. And result in me hogging the copier for ages, to boot! Muwahahahahaha! Sorry. I just feel the evil urge to get even with a certain copy machine hog I encountered today. But that's a different story. I didn't make the copies today, because I want to see if the volume is available somewhere else first. And I'd also like to get my hands on the other three. So I have some computer investigation to commence shortly.
So today was easily the best day of document hunting I've had yet. Here's hoping the remaining two weeks or so of actual research prove nearly as good.
-------------------------------
Addendum: I just began researching that River Ribble source. Talk about small worlds. The University of Florida has the collection! Of course, I need to suss out where and how to go about being able to see it. And if it's even going to help with whatever Dr. Closmann assigns. But it's in Gainesville - 45 minutes from my house! :-D
On days where I'm not that lucky, I often find myself copying down information "just in case." For instance, I wrote down information from the Earl of Derby's rent receipt books for 1839, 1840, and 1841 "just in case." But, to be honest, I don't see needing to know that Paul Catterall failed to pay his annual chapel pew rental of four pounds in 1839 for my thesis. In reality, the "just in case" is really a so-it-looks-like-I-got-something-accomplished-today maneuver. There's nothing worse than returning from a day of research with only one or two pages of notes.
In light of this trend, I was superpsyched with the amount of usable material I discovered today. Dozens of pages of information that actually will come in handy with my thesis! It was crazy! It was exciting! It came out of . . . a phone book? Okay, not really a phone book. But close. I found a collection of directories from Preston in the nineteenth century. In addition to lists of all the businesses in the town, the directories provided a variety of data, such as the names of the gentry, church information, postal information (including prices), public buildings, and population figures. The collection was an unexpected treasure trove of information. I even found Steve's great-great-great grandfather's listing for his wheelwright shop! I selected directories for three different years spread across the century: 1818 (the earliest one available), 1841, and 1889. This way, I can see the changes in the businesses over the years. In particular, cotton manufacturing and taverns.
I also found a wealth of information about pollution and the River Ribble, including one of four volumes from a commission established by Queen Victoria in 1887 to investigate how to curb pollution in both the Ribble and Mersey rivers. Now this doesn't have anything to do with my thesis, but I've been keeping my eyes open for Ribble info in case it might prove useful for the research paper I'm sure I'm going to have to write for my environmental history class in the fall. So I was really excited to come across this gem - although making copies of the pages I found interesting is going to cost quite a bit. And result in me hogging the copier for ages, to boot! Muwahahahahaha! Sorry. I just feel the evil urge to get even with a certain copy machine hog I encountered today. But that's a different story. I didn't make the copies today, because I want to see if the volume is available somewhere else first. And I'd also like to get my hands on the other three. So I have some computer investigation to commence shortly.
So today was easily the best day of document hunting I've had yet. Here's hoping the remaining two weeks or so of actual research prove nearly as good.
-------------------------------
Addendum: I just began researching that River Ribble source. Talk about small worlds. The University of Florida has the collection! Of course, I need to suss out where and how to go about being able to see it. And if it's even going to help with whatever Dr. Closmann assigns. But it's in Gainesville - 45 minutes from my house! :-D
16 June 2009
Cultural differences
When I travel abroad, I make every effort not to fall into the it's-wrong-because-that's-not-how-we-do-it mindset. I know a lot of my fellow Americans do fall into that trap, and that's one reason we have such a miserable reputation. So I try to appreciate the differences - even if they baffle and/or annoy the hell out of it.
One of the latter is the issue of personal space. In general, Americans prefer a larger area of personal space than Europeans. In Europe, especially on the continent, the personal zone is very small. I have no idea where this cultural difference originates. Is it because we come from such a big country? Or is it something else?
Whatever the reason, the result is if you're in Europe you end up with people standing or walking really close together and, here's the rub, close to you. This is a problem for me, because I like a big circle of personal space. And I like strangers to stay well out of it. Having it violated tests me to my last nerve. Last year, we were in a tiny shop in Edinburgh when some tourists from eastern Europe came into the store. The women shoved in and, despite there being enough space, hovered literally about three inches from me. I withstood it for about fifteen seconds before I was out the door. If Steve and I are walking down a European street, chances are someone is walking right on our heels. Needless to say, it's not long before I grab Steve and pull him off to the side so the people pass.
Lately, I've encountered a variation on the personal-space theme. When I ride the bus home in the afternoons, it's crowded. So more often than not, someone sits next to me. No big deal. It's the way it is on public transport. Back home, on a bus or on a subway, when seats open up, people sitting next to strangers move to them. We spread back out as soon as we are able. I've noticed that here, even when half the seats are empty, the people stay put until they reach their stops. They, like their fellow EUers on the continent, apparently have very tiny zones of personal space.
You know, I wonder if that's why the crowds at Disney get so packed sometimes. At least half of the visitors are from Europe. To them, being in a cluster is normal. To me, alas, it's just annoying. I guess this is one cultural divide I will simply be unable to cross.
One of the latter is the issue of personal space. In general, Americans prefer a larger area of personal space than Europeans. In Europe, especially on the continent, the personal zone is very small. I have no idea where this cultural difference originates. Is it because we come from such a big country? Or is it something else?
Whatever the reason, the result is if you're in Europe you end up with people standing or walking really close together and, here's the rub, close to you. This is a problem for me, because I like a big circle of personal space. And I like strangers to stay well out of it. Having it violated tests me to my last nerve. Last year, we were in a tiny shop in Edinburgh when some tourists from eastern Europe came into the store. The women shoved in and, despite there being enough space, hovered literally about three inches from me. I withstood it for about fifteen seconds before I was out the door. If Steve and I are walking down a European street, chances are someone is walking right on our heels. Needless to say, it's not long before I grab Steve and pull him off to the side so the people pass.
Lately, I've encountered a variation on the personal-space theme. When I ride the bus home in the afternoons, it's crowded. So more often than not, someone sits next to me. No big deal. It's the way it is on public transport. Back home, on a bus or on a subway, when seats open up, people sitting next to strangers move to them. We spread back out as soon as we are able. I've noticed that here, even when half the seats are empty, the people stay put until they reach their stops. They, like their fellow EUers on the continent, apparently have very tiny zones of personal space.
You know, I wonder if that's why the crowds at Disney get so packed sometimes. At least half of the visitors are from Europe. To them, being in a cluster is normal. To me, alas, it's just annoying. I guess this is one cultural divide I will simply be unable to cross.
14 June 2009
Taking a stroll
We've had some glorious weather here lately. And I try to take advantage of it by walking as much as I can. So Friday, after I finished at the library, I decided to walk home from the city centre. I took pictures as I walked and have posted them on Facebook. You can see them here:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2039236&id=29803339&l=e89ed51b18
When I post photos on my Ashton Land website, I take time to research the history of featured buildings and locales. I didn't do that with these photos and it feels . . . wrong. It's like I'm failing viewers by not providing the who, what, where, when, why, and how.
The photos I posted are not all the photos I took, though. I have some shots of churches and pubs, too. But I'm saving those up and will publish individual albums of them later. But I want to share a story about St. Wilfrid's.
St. Wilfrid's was an ancient church in Preston that was eventually torn down. It was rebuilt in a new location in the 19th century. I had read about it in a blurb somewhere, but had no idea where it was located. As I strolled down Winckley Street on my way to Avenham Park on Friday, I noticed a sign indicating St. Wilfrid's was in the same direction. Shortly thereafter I passed by a wrought iron gate and just happened to notice a sign mentioning that the church was open. I stopped in my tracks, took a step backward, and peered through the gate. Was this St. Wilfrid's?
It didn't even look like a church. The gate opened onto an alleyway that could comfortably fit one car. I felt hemmed in by the tall buildings on all sides. A multi-story shop building loomed on the left. A sign on it gave the hours for St. Wilfrid's Roman Catholic Church, a parish of the Society of Jesus. Wow. St. Wilfrid's is a Jesuit church. I had no idea! I stepped through the gate and looked at the building to my right. Sure enough, it was a small church. Over the years, it was surrounded by other buildings, leaving it nearly hidden.
I snapped a couple of photos and looked longingly at the wooden doors before me. I wanted to go inside. But I ended up chickening out. Although a sign said the church was open to anyone until 5 that day, I just felt wrong wanting to go inside just out of curiosity. Next time, I'll find the courage. But today, I had a long walk before me and no desire to disrupt the sanctity of the church. I plan to do a tour of Preston churches before I head home. St. Wilfrid's has been added to the list.
The walk home was long (it took me 65 minutes at a pretty steady clip), but pleasant. Many people were enjoying the beautiful day in the park. My route took me into Avenham Park and along its main field toward the River Ribble. I then walked along the river through Avenham and Miller parks. Then I crossed the old pedestrian bridge into Middleforth Green and up the hill toward home. The route is somewhere around three miles, I think. Steve can say better than I.
Some observations from my walk:
A couple in their 30s were having a picnic on the riverbank. A blanket was laid out next to a picnic basket. They were returning to their spot from a little concession stand nearby. The man carried two cups and the woman carried . . . a tea kettle. Only the English would have a tea kettle on a picnic!
Once out of the park, I walked through an attractive neighborhood nestled against the riverbank. One cottage was named Ferry House. Before the bridge was built in the late 18th or early 19th century, a ferry used to shuttle people across the Ribble to Preston. I wonder if the ferry used to cross near here and the cottage was somehow attached to it. The cottage next door is called the Boat House, so who knows, really?
I miss a/c the most after I've done a long walk like this, because the last 1/8 mile or so is uphill . . . in the sun.
I have three weeks and three days until I fly home. I'm anxious to get home to Steve, but no longer worried that I won't get enough research done. With a welcome assist from Dr. Furdell, I have narrowed the focus of my thesis and have a pretty clear idea of what else I need to accumulate.
Famous last words, I'm sure. I imagine I'll think of something else I need when I actually start writing. I'll just have to cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I'm relieved that the end of this trip is fast approaching and I'm actually going to be ready for it.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2039236&id=29803339&l=e89ed51b18
When I post photos on my Ashton Land website, I take time to research the history of featured buildings and locales. I didn't do that with these photos and it feels . . . wrong. It's like I'm failing viewers by not providing the who, what, where, when, why, and how.
The photos I posted are not all the photos I took, though. I have some shots of churches and pubs, too. But I'm saving those up and will publish individual albums of them later. But I want to share a story about St. Wilfrid's.
St. Wilfrid's was an ancient church in Preston that was eventually torn down. It was rebuilt in a new location in the 19th century. I had read about it in a blurb somewhere, but had no idea where it was located. As I strolled down Winckley Street on my way to Avenham Park on Friday, I noticed a sign indicating St. Wilfrid's was in the same direction. Shortly thereafter I passed by a wrought iron gate and just happened to notice a sign mentioning that the church was open. I stopped in my tracks, took a step backward, and peered through the gate. Was this St. Wilfrid's?
It didn't even look like a church. The gate opened onto an alleyway that could comfortably fit one car. I felt hemmed in by the tall buildings on all sides. A multi-story shop building loomed on the left. A sign on it gave the hours for St. Wilfrid's Roman Catholic Church, a parish of the Society of Jesus. Wow. St. Wilfrid's is a Jesuit church. I had no idea! I stepped through the gate and looked at the building to my right. Sure enough, it was a small church. Over the years, it was surrounded by other buildings, leaving it nearly hidden.
I snapped a couple of photos and looked longingly at the wooden doors before me. I wanted to go inside. But I ended up chickening out. Although a sign said the church was open to anyone until 5 that day, I just felt wrong wanting to go inside just out of curiosity. Next time, I'll find the courage. But today, I had a long walk before me and no desire to disrupt the sanctity of the church. I plan to do a tour of Preston churches before I head home. St. Wilfrid's has been added to the list.
The walk home was long (it took me 65 minutes at a pretty steady clip), but pleasant. Many people were enjoying the beautiful day in the park. My route took me into Avenham Park and along its main field toward the River Ribble. I then walked along the river through Avenham and Miller parks. Then I crossed the old pedestrian bridge into Middleforth Green and up the hill toward home. The route is somewhere around three miles, I think. Steve can say better than I.
Some observations from my walk:
A couple in their 30s were having a picnic on the riverbank. A blanket was laid out next to a picnic basket. They were returning to their spot from a little concession stand nearby. The man carried two cups and the woman carried . . . a tea kettle. Only the English would have a tea kettle on a picnic!
Once out of the park, I walked through an attractive neighborhood nestled against the riverbank. One cottage was named Ferry House. Before the bridge was built in the late 18th or early 19th century, a ferry used to shuttle people across the Ribble to Preston. I wonder if the ferry used to cross near here and the cottage was somehow attached to it. The cottage next door is called the Boat House, so who knows, really?
I miss a/c the most after I've done a long walk like this, because the last 1/8 mile or so is uphill . . . in the sun.
I have three weeks and three days until I fly home. I'm anxious to get home to Steve, but no longer worried that I won't get enough research done. With a welcome assist from Dr. Furdell, I have narrowed the focus of my thesis and have a pretty clear idea of what else I need to accumulate.
Famous last words, I'm sure. I imagine I'll think of something else I need when I actually start writing. I'll just have to cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I'm relieved that the end of this trip is fast approaching and I'm actually going to be ready for it.
04 June 2009
Preston
A couple of weeks ago, Kiara, our 12-year-old niece, asked me why I'm writing about Preston. To her, Preston is boring. Her mum, Steve's sister Tina, explained that it may be boring to Kiara, because she lives here, but others who don't may not agree. She used Disney as an example, saying that Kiara would be super excited about going there, but where I've been so many times, it wouldn't be as exciting for me. Although Tina's reply was a good one, I admit Kiara's question stuck with me, because she's got a definite point.
I ride the bus a lot, as folks here know. I drive at home, but I'm not about to attempt the whole left-side-of-the-road thing. One day . . . just not now. Although I must admit that I'm getting used to the road reversal to the point that when I think about driving at home, it seems odd. Anyway, I'm traveling further afield on the bus now, and I'm seeing many sides to Preston. The result: Preston is not all that great.
It has some beautiful areas with gorgeous houses, like Fulwood. And some beautiful parks. But it also has some downright scummy areas with rough-looking inhabitants. And even the nicer areas are marred by trash. I was walking along the Docklands a few days ago. A blue-green algae bloom made the water the color of Biscayne Bay - a rather lovely shade of turquoise. It was sunny and warm, but with a cool breeze, and I was just enjoying being out. Then I noticed all the garbage floating in the water - cups, cans, bottles, bags. It was disgusting. It reminded me of the big cities back home.
Traffic is miserable. Vehicular traffic downtown is thick and noisy, with people cutting others off. Pedestrian traffic on the high street is just as bad. And, no matter what the European news media may say, Americans do not have a monopoly on stupidity and self-centeredness. Don't believe me? Just walk down the sidewalk in Preston. You won't get one block before you encounter stupidity, rudeness, or both.
Modern-day Preston is a city (officially as of a few years ago)and it bears all the marks thereof - good and bad. Obviously, what makes it remarkable to me is its history. But on the surface, Preston's history is not that big of a deal. Like most English towns, it has some old churches and houses. It's a medieval town, but none of its medieval structures remain. No wall surrounds the town and dredging has changed the lay of the river. So it doesn't look historic.
Obviously, Preston fascinates me because it's Steve's home town. Through him, I am connected to it. Just as my ancestry gives me a connection to colonial America, Steve's pedigree connects me here. And in tracing his family tree and exploring Preston's history, I have discovered the diamond under all the industrial coal dust. Famous, and not-so-famous, points of history have touched Preston. It has experienced many firsts and been the site of battles, riots, and royal visits.
If it weren't for Steve, I would have never discovered the Preston behind the grimy city facade. (Okay, if it weren't for Steve, I probably wouldn't even know Preston existed, but that's not the point.) I would have taken one look at it, probably grimaced, and moved on. Instead, I dug beneath the surface and discovered a treasure trove of history just waiting to be appreciated. And I think that's a lesson we could all stand to learn.
Not every city or town wears its history on its sleeve. You can't have a Buckingham Palace, Notre Dame, or St. Paul's Cathedral in every locale. But if you're willing to peer a little closer, you just may find something worth looking for.
I ride the bus a lot, as folks here know. I drive at home, but I'm not about to attempt the whole left-side-of-the-road thing. One day . . . just not now. Although I must admit that I'm getting used to the road reversal to the point that when I think about driving at home, it seems odd. Anyway, I'm traveling further afield on the bus now, and I'm seeing many sides to Preston. The result: Preston is not all that great.
It has some beautiful areas with gorgeous houses, like Fulwood. And some beautiful parks. But it also has some downright scummy areas with rough-looking inhabitants. And even the nicer areas are marred by trash. I was walking along the Docklands a few days ago. A blue-green algae bloom made the water the color of Biscayne Bay - a rather lovely shade of turquoise. It was sunny and warm, but with a cool breeze, and I was just enjoying being out. Then I noticed all the garbage floating in the water - cups, cans, bottles, bags. It was disgusting. It reminded me of the big cities back home.
Traffic is miserable. Vehicular traffic downtown is thick and noisy, with people cutting others off. Pedestrian traffic on the high street is just as bad. And, no matter what the European news media may say, Americans do not have a monopoly on stupidity and self-centeredness. Don't believe me? Just walk down the sidewalk in Preston. You won't get one block before you encounter stupidity, rudeness, or both.
Modern-day Preston is a city (officially as of a few years ago)and it bears all the marks thereof - good and bad. Obviously, what makes it remarkable to me is its history. But on the surface, Preston's history is not that big of a deal. Like most English towns, it has some old churches and houses. It's a medieval town, but none of its medieval structures remain. No wall surrounds the town and dredging has changed the lay of the river. So it doesn't look historic.
Obviously, Preston fascinates me because it's Steve's home town. Through him, I am connected to it. Just as my ancestry gives me a connection to colonial America, Steve's pedigree connects me here. And in tracing his family tree and exploring Preston's history, I have discovered the diamond under all the industrial coal dust. Famous, and not-so-famous, points of history have touched Preston. It has experienced many firsts and been the site of battles, riots, and royal visits.
If it weren't for Steve, I would have never discovered the Preston behind the grimy city facade. (Okay, if it weren't for Steve, I probably wouldn't even know Preston existed, but that's not the point.) I would have taken one look at it, probably grimaced, and moved on. Instead, I dug beneath the surface and discovered a treasure trove of history just waiting to be appreciated. And I think that's a lesson we could all stand to learn.
Not every city or town wears its history on its sleeve. You can't have a Buckingham Palace, Notre Dame, or St. Paul's Cathedral in every locale. But if you're willing to peer a little closer, you just may find something worth looking for.
02 June 2009
Rough on the eyes
After several productive hours in the Records Office today, I've learned one thing: Newsprint in the 19th century was tiny! I don't know if Prestonians in the 1800s had bionic eyesight or what, but reading the three days' worth of newpapers I read this morning just about did my eyes in. But it was worth it, I guess, because I did get some information that may be useful.
I also found a map from 1835 today that spoke of recommendend changes to the River Ribble. The Ribble was eventually dredged, which changed its course. While my thesis is a social history and, thus, unconcerned with environmental issues, I am taking an environmental history course in the fall. So I thought I'd do some work in that field, as well, in anticipation of a research paper for the class. While the map, itself, is interesting, the main thing I discovered is the cost of getting copies is outrageous!!! The map was too big to copy, so it would have to be scanned. It's actually the largest type of paper available. Which meant it would cost me 19 pounds for a black and white image. 19! Luckily, the lady helping me said I had a much nicer option. For 5 pounds, I can get a photography license that allows me to take as many photos of documents that I want (assuming said photographs are within copyright terms). It's 5 quid a day, but if I'm organized, I should be able to get copies of many documents. Since it's 50p a copy for normal-sized documents and a blooming arm and a leg for larger ones that need scanning, this is clearly the cheaper option. And with the dollar falling to the pound, cheaper is necessary.
So tomorrow I'm back with camera in hand ready to pounce. I not only have the map waiting for me, but a couple of boxes of documents from the estate of Lord Stanley, Earl of Derby - a powerful and influential nobleman of 19th-century Preston. Look out documents, it's time for your close-ups.
I also found a map from 1835 today that spoke of recommendend changes to the River Ribble. The Ribble was eventually dredged, which changed its course. While my thesis is a social history and, thus, unconcerned with environmental issues, I am taking an environmental history course in the fall. So I thought I'd do some work in that field, as well, in anticipation of a research paper for the class. While the map, itself, is interesting, the main thing I discovered is the cost of getting copies is outrageous!!! The map was too big to copy, so it would have to be scanned. It's actually the largest type of paper available. Which meant it would cost me 19 pounds for a black and white image. 19! Luckily, the lady helping me said I had a much nicer option. For 5 pounds, I can get a photography license that allows me to take as many photos of documents that I want (assuming said photographs are within copyright terms). It's 5 quid a day, but if I'm organized, I should be able to get copies of many documents. Since it's 50p a copy for normal-sized documents and a blooming arm and a leg for larger ones that need scanning, this is clearly the cheaper option. And with the dollar falling to the pound, cheaper is necessary.
So tomorrow I'm back with camera in hand ready to pounce. I not only have the map waiting for me, but a couple of boxes of documents from the estate of Lord Stanley, Earl of Derby - a powerful and influential nobleman of 19th-century Preston. Look out documents, it's time for your close-ups.
29 May 2009
More ponderings
Things that have crossed my mind lately:
(1)
The daylight hours here way up the globe totally flummox me. It is bright insanely early. Sunrise is before 5 a.m. This morning, it was 4:50 and the sun was beaming through the curtains. My poor sleeping mind then assumes the alarm didn't go off and I awake convinced I'm late. And then, it stays bright way later than it should in my book. I was watching the telly and it was just starting to go twilighty. The time? Nearly 10 p.m.!! That is just . . . wrong. And it's only going to get worse. The longest day is a few weeks off, yet.
(2)
There are a lot of really bad parents around here. A young man got on the bus yesterday with his son, who was about 2, and a friend. He completely ignored the boy. He just left him sitting in a stroller and he chatted away with his friend. The boy was the saddest creature I had ever seen, too. But his father is hardly the worse offender.
Way too many parents tell their kids to shut up. And the ones who do it the most have the same accent, so maybe it's a regional thing. But it makes me cringe. You just should not tell little kids (you know, like three-year-olds) to shut up. But the cake goes to this woman on the bus the other day who deserved to be throttled.
Two women got on the bus. They were easily in their mid-30s, so you can't blame immaturity for their less-than-stellar mothering skills. They had about five kids with them and a baby in a stroller. One woman sat near the front with the stroller. The other woman went to the back with the five kids. The kids were aged from about 2 to 4. The first thing that the second woman did that annoyed me was announce - quite loudly - that the toddler "stunk" and then she changed her diaper ON THE BUS. In the seat right behind me, I might add. Then she told the equally loud children to "shut up." And when that didn't do the trick, she moved to the front of the bus and left the children ALONE! She told the oldest child - who I remind you is about 4 - to take care of the others. Insanity! What if the bus stopped suddenly? Or rounded a curve too fast (which they do a lot)? How can you leave one four-year-old in charge of four other kids?
You know, if you don't wants kids, don't have them. Seriously.
(3)
I find myself wondering why the books at the Records Office are easier to locate than the books at the library. They're in order and everything. And also, why does the Record Office have four times as many books as the library's local reference section? That makes no sense. But I'm grateful. At least I have access to the books I'm after.
(4)
The Records Office was surprisingly un-busy today. Unfortunately, although I found everything I was looking for, it failed to yield what I hoped it would. I had a lot of dead-ends and disappointments. Here's hoping Monday turns out better.
(1)
The daylight hours here way up the globe totally flummox me. It is bright insanely early. Sunrise is before 5 a.m. This morning, it was 4:50 and the sun was beaming through the curtains. My poor sleeping mind then assumes the alarm didn't go off and I awake convinced I'm late. And then, it stays bright way later than it should in my book. I was watching the telly and it was just starting to go twilighty. The time? Nearly 10 p.m.!! That is just . . . wrong. And it's only going to get worse. The longest day is a few weeks off, yet.
(2)
There are a lot of really bad parents around here. A young man got on the bus yesterday with his son, who was about 2, and a friend. He completely ignored the boy. He just left him sitting in a stroller and he chatted away with his friend. The boy was the saddest creature I had ever seen, too. But his father is hardly the worse offender.
Way too many parents tell their kids to shut up. And the ones who do it the most have the same accent, so maybe it's a regional thing. But it makes me cringe. You just should not tell little kids (you know, like three-year-olds) to shut up. But the cake goes to this woman on the bus the other day who deserved to be throttled.
Two women got on the bus. They were easily in their mid-30s, so you can't blame immaturity for their less-than-stellar mothering skills. They had about five kids with them and a baby in a stroller. One woman sat near the front with the stroller. The other woman went to the back with the five kids. The kids were aged from about 2 to 4. The first thing that the second woman did that annoyed me was announce - quite loudly - that the toddler "stunk" and then she changed her diaper ON THE BUS. In the seat right behind me, I might add. Then she told the equally loud children to "shut up." And when that didn't do the trick, she moved to the front of the bus and left the children ALONE! She told the oldest child - who I remind you is about 4 - to take care of the others. Insanity! What if the bus stopped suddenly? Or rounded a curve too fast (which they do a lot)? How can you leave one four-year-old in charge of four other kids?
You know, if you don't wants kids, don't have them. Seriously.
(3)
I find myself wondering why the books at the Records Office are easier to locate than the books at the library. They're in order and everything. And also, why does the Record Office have four times as many books as the library's local reference section? That makes no sense. But I'm grateful. At least I have access to the books I'm after.
(4)
The Records Office was surprisingly un-busy today. Unfortunately, although I found everything I was looking for, it failed to yield what I hoped it would. I had a lot of dead-ends and disappointments. Here's hoping Monday turns out better.
27 May 2009
Observations at Manchester Airport
Steve flew home this morning and half of me is now missing. I'm glad to be getting back to my research tomorrow. I need to keep my mind occupied. Even the weather is sad to see Steve go. After a week of mostly sunny skies, it's been raining all morning here. It's like the sky is weeping, too.
But enough unhappy stuff. My observations:
First Observation: I see famous people
They take security perhaps a bit too far at Manchester Airport. When you queue up to check your bags, only ticketed travelers are allowed to stand in line. So I had to hang back outside the strapped queue area for Steve to check his bags and get his boarding cards. As I stood there, a couple exited the area and walked toward me on their way out. I looked at them, recognized them, and then it hit me that they were celebrities! Maksim Chermerkovskiy and Karina Smirnoff were flying out of Manchester today and they walked right by me! For those who don't recognize the names: They're professional dancers from Dancing with the Stars. I think they were traveling with their families, because a large group of people speaking a Russian-esque language came by shortly thereafter. Maks and Karina hung out for awhile before heading toward the departure gates. When I told Steve about seeing them, he told me to take a photo of them. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Second observation: If you don't know how to write it, don't
Today is a huge football match between Manchester United and Barcelona in Rome. It's for the European championship cup, I think, or something along those lines. We apparently just missed a huge crowd of people flying out of Manchester to Rome. Many airport employees were wearing commemorative t-shirts. Whoever designed the shirt must have thought it would be clever to write the date in Roman numerals, since the match is held in Rome. In England, the date is written a bit differently than at home. It goes Day - Month - Year. So today's date is 27-5-2009. Now, in proper Roman numerals, that would read:
XXVII - V - MMIX
But that's not what was printed on the shirt. What did it have?
IIVII - V - IIXXIX
And to think, a lot of the Man United fans are wearing these shirts as they fly to Rome today. How embarrassing.
But enough unhappy stuff. My observations:
First Observation: I see famous people
They take security perhaps a bit too far at Manchester Airport. When you queue up to check your bags, only ticketed travelers are allowed to stand in line. So I had to hang back outside the strapped queue area for Steve to check his bags and get his boarding cards. As I stood there, a couple exited the area and walked toward me on their way out. I looked at them, recognized them, and then it hit me that they were celebrities! Maksim Chermerkovskiy and Karina Smirnoff were flying out of Manchester today and they walked right by me! For those who don't recognize the names: They're professional dancers from Dancing with the Stars. I think they were traveling with their families, because a large group of people speaking a Russian-esque language came by shortly thereafter. Maks and Karina hung out for awhile before heading toward the departure gates. When I told Steve about seeing them, he told me to take a photo of them. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Second observation: If you don't know how to write it, don't
Today is a huge football match between Manchester United and Barcelona in Rome. It's for the European championship cup, I think, or something along those lines. We apparently just missed a huge crowd of people flying out of Manchester to Rome. Many airport employees were wearing commemorative t-shirts. Whoever designed the shirt must have thought it would be clever to write the date in Roman numerals, since the match is held in Rome. In England, the date is written a bit differently than at home. It goes Day - Month - Year. So today's date is 27-5-2009. Now, in proper Roman numerals, that would read:
XXVII - V - MMIX
But that's not what was printed on the shirt. What did it have?
IIVII - V - IIXXIX
And to think, a lot of the Man United fans are wearing these shirts as they fly to Rome today. How embarrassing.
23 May 2009
Some reflection
I've not been doing any blogging, because I'm sucking up every iota of time with Steve that I can. We're apart tonight, though, because one of his best friends invited him to a concert by one of Steve's favorite musicians, Jean Michel Jarre. So I thought I'd share with you a bit of reflection.
Thursday was a beautiful day here in northwest England. It started off rainy, but it soon gave way to a brilliant blue sky, bright sun, and warmish temperature. Thinking it was foolish to waste such a glorious day (especially since it had been very rainy here - though nothing like that suffered by friends and loved one back home in "sunny" Florida), I suggested Steve and I go for a walk. This being Steve's childhood home, and with me having no clear idea of where I wanted to go, I asked Steve to lead the way and we began our trek through his neighborhood.
It's an area I'm growing to know pretty well. I recognized the houses and other landmarks as we walked to one of the main thoroughfares and down a hill. We walked past the park I shared with you a few blogs ago and through a long section of tightly-packed terraced homes. On the other side was the old Methodist Church and a view of the River Ribble.
"Do you want to go this way?" Steve asked, pointing to a foot path winding off to the left just before the church, "Or that way?" He gestured to a similar path across the road. I had no preference and we headed down the left path. Well shaded by a canopy of trees, the asphalt path was still wet from the morning's rain. I walked carefully, adjusting my foot falls to miss puddles and muddy patches.
We walked by some allotments. An allotment is an area set aside by the local council for residents to garden. It's required by national law. One of these days, I need to investigate the history of that legislation. But basically, for an annual fee, residents are entitled to about a 20 foot by 30 foot section of land on which they can grow fruits and vegetables. I think it's an awesome concept.
A few more minutes on the path took us near one of the main motorways and through a lovely neighborhood dating only to the 1980s. We picked up another footpath in the neighborhood and within a few feet, we were in the woods. A stream, swollen by the recent rain, burbled to our left. Chestnut trees towered above us. The breeze shushed through the leaves and was punctuated by a variety of bird calls. The birds that live here obviously do not have any cousins in Florida, because the songs were like nothing I hear at home. I listened to them, trying to come up with a verbal description of the patterns. Rhythmic da dit da dit da dits were followed by high-pitched trills. Simple high notes repeated themselves in series of threes and fours. Others simply tweeted. When we reached a partial clearing, the birds spotted us and the sounds changed from happy to threatened. Rasping calls alerted every bird around danger approached. When we kept walking, the bird call slowly returned to normal.
As we walked through this beautiful setting, two things occured to me almost simultaneously. One was a sense of marvel at how an area so natural and virtually untouched lay mere minutes from a thriving neighborhood. The other was the realization that I was truly happy to be in such a setting. The latter was almost a bit profound, because although I live in the sticks, I've always appreciated city living. I miss the conveniences of cable internet, pizza delivery, and the ability to pop to the store when you need something. I've always assumed that I was more of a city girl (or at least a suburban girl) than a country girl. But the way I felt as I walked down that wooded path, with dappled sunlight dancing through the rustling leaves, told me otherwise. And that, in turn, made me wonder if that's why history appeals to me as much as it does. And why modern history irritates me as much as it does.
I asked Steve to go for a walk, because I wanted to be out in the fresh air and open spaces. Funny how I ended up deep inside my head, instead.
Thursday was a beautiful day here in northwest England. It started off rainy, but it soon gave way to a brilliant blue sky, bright sun, and warmish temperature. Thinking it was foolish to waste such a glorious day (especially since it had been very rainy here - though nothing like that suffered by friends and loved one back home in "sunny" Florida), I suggested Steve and I go for a walk. This being Steve's childhood home, and with me having no clear idea of where I wanted to go, I asked Steve to lead the way and we began our trek through his neighborhood.
It's an area I'm growing to know pretty well. I recognized the houses and other landmarks as we walked to one of the main thoroughfares and down a hill. We walked past the park I shared with you a few blogs ago and through a long section of tightly-packed terraced homes. On the other side was the old Methodist Church and a view of the River Ribble.
"Do you want to go this way?" Steve asked, pointing to a foot path winding off to the left just before the church, "Or that way?" He gestured to a similar path across the road. I had no preference and we headed down the left path. Well shaded by a canopy of trees, the asphalt path was still wet from the morning's rain. I walked carefully, adjusting my foot falls to miss puddles and muddy patches.
We walked by some allotments. An allotment is an area set aside by the local council for residents to garden. It's required by national law. One of these days, I need to investigate the history of that legislation. But basically, for an annual fee, residents are entitled to about a 20 foot by 30 foot section of land on which they can grow fruits and vegetables. I think it's an awesome concept.
A few more minutes on the path took us near one of the main motorways and through a lovely neighborhood dating only to the 1980s. We picked up another footpath in the neighborhood and within a few feet, we were in the woods. A stream, swollen by the recent rain, burbled to our left. Chestnut trees towered above us. The breeze shushed through the leaves and was punctuated by a variety of bird calls. The birds that live here obviously do not have any cousins in Florida, because the songs were like nothing I hear at home. I listened to them, trying to come up with a verbal description of the patterns. Rhythmic da dit da dit da dits were followed by high-pitched trills. Simple high notes repeated themselves in series of threes and fours. Others simply tweeted. When we reached a partial clearing, the birds spotted us and the sounds changed from happy to threatened. Rasping calls alerted every bird around danger approached. When we kept walking, the bird call slowly returned to normal.
As we walked through this beautiful setting, two things occured to me almost simultaneously. One was a sense of marvel at how an area so natural and virtually untouched lay mere minutes from a thriving neighborhood. The other was the realization that I was truly happy to be in such a setting. The latter was almost a bit profound, because although I live in the sticks, I've always appreciated city living. I miss the conveniences of cable internet, pizza delivery, and the ability to pop to the store when you need something. I've always assumed that I was more of a city girl (or at least a suburban girl) than a country girl. But the way I felt as I walked down that wooded path, with dappled sunlight dancing through the rustling leaves, told me otherwise. And that, in turn, made me wonder if that's why history appeals to me as much as it does. And why modern history irritates me as much as it does.
I asked Steve to go for a walk, because I wanted to be out in the fresh air and open spaces. Funny how I ended up deep inside my head, instead.
20 May 2009
Steve has landed!!
According to Flightview, his flight landed at 8:23 this morning. By now, he's probably walking toward immigration to join the queue. He'll be through in no time, since I'm not there to drag down the process. If only I could have a British passport!
I'm so excited! He'll probably be home by 10!! I feel like a kid waiting for Santa!
Addendum added at 8:55 a.m. local time:
Steve just called. Flightview lied. He landed about five minutes ago and his plane was just taxiing to the gate. It was so nice to hear his voice and know he's just 40 miles away.
I'm so excited! He'll probably be home by 10!! I feel like a kid waiting for Santa!
Addendum added at 8:55 a.m. local time:
Steve just called. Flightview lied. He landed about five minutes ago and his plane was just taxiing to the gate. It was so nice to hear his voice and know he's just 40 miles away.
19 May 2009
Wife vs Historian
I guess I'm not as much of an historian as I thought. With Steve arriving tomorrow, I know full well I'm not going to get much research done. I miss him. I only have a week with him. I'm going to spend as much of it in his company as humanly possible. He's not big on historical research, so that means I'll be wherever he wants to be and not vice versa. But did I get any archival research done today? No. Why? Because I can't focus on anything other than the fact Steve's going to be here tomorrow. I am clearly more of a wife than an historian. And you know, I can live with that!
I woke up planning on going to the Lancashire Records Office (LRO) today. I originally planned to leave early, so I could secure a place before the old-age pensioners arrived en masse. Then Steve told me that he was going into work later than normal and that he'd try to Skype before he left. We hadn't had a chance to talk Monday night, so I thought that was a great idea. The LRO is open until 7:30 tonight, so I figured I'd talk to Steve in the morning and get over there later in the day, when the pensioners were heading home for tea. And even if it was crowded, I had plenty of microfiche reading to do to keep busy. For some reason, the microfiche readers aren't particularly popular.
As I waited for Steve to call, I took the time to organize all the notes I've accumulated. I transcribed most of them onto my computer, and neatened up the handwritten ones I am still using to find sources at the library and LRO. I also read a bit from one of my history books, and compiled even more sources to investigate. I re-engaged with some of the historical statistics I have and ordered the book from which I got them from amazon.com. I may not have done any archival research, but I had a productive morning and afternoon, all the same.
As the hours rolled by (a five-hour time difference can be a pain) and Steve hadn't contacted me, I worried. As it turns out, he had lost cell phone service. Since we connect to the internet via our Verizon phones, he couldn't get online. Nor could he text me, because he had no service. When I got worried enough, I texted his work phone and learned what had happened. Not sure why Steve didn't text me from his work phone to start with - he knows how I get. Anyway, I kept working from home, hoping he'd be able to call. When it got to be 3:30 here, I decided that I needed to get into Preston.
Naturally, Steve texts me whilst I'm on the bus heading into the city center to say that phone service was back and he was heading into Jacksonville. If I had waited just a few minutes more . . .
In Preston, I popped by the library long enough to return the "Lost" DVDs I had borrowed. I then bought some goodies for Steve (some McVitie's Ginger Nut cookies and some new Cadbury Twisted candy bars) at a store on Friargate. Then I came back. I had some cheese on toast for supper.
Steve said he's going to try and call from the airport. That'll be around 9 tonight, England time. I'm curling up with an interesting book about housing in Preston during the Industrial Revolution while I wait for his call.
So I guess that, even though I am a better wife than historian, I'm still an historian. :-)
I woke up planning on going to the Lancashire Records Office (LRO) today. I originally planned to leave early, so I could secure a place before the old-age pensioners arrived en masse. Then Steve told me that he was going into work later than normal and that he'd try to Skype before he left. We hadn't had a chance to talk Monday night, so I thought that was a great idea. The LRO is open until 7:30 tonight, so I figured I'd talk to Steve in the morning and get over there later in the day, when the pensioners were heading home for tea. And even if it was crowded, I had plenty of microfiche reading to do to keep busy. For some reason, the microfiche readers aren't particularly popular.
As I waited for Steve to call, I took the time to organize all the notes I've accumulated. I transcribed most of them onto my computer, and neatened up the handwritten ones I am still using to find sources at the library and LRO. I also read a bit from one of my history books, and compiled even more sources to investigate. I re-engaged with some of the historical statistics I have and ordered the book from which I got them from amazon.com. I may not have done any archival research, but I had a productive morning and afternoon, all the same.
As the hours rolled by (a five-hour time difference can be a pain) and Steve hadn't contacted me, I worried. As it turns out, he had lost cell phone service. Since we connect to the internet via our Verizon phones, he couldn't get online. Nor could he text me, because he had no service. When I got worried enough, I texted his work phone and learned what had happened. Not sure why Steve didn't text me from his work phone to start with - he knows how I get. Anyway, I kept working from home, hoping he'd be able to call. When it got to be 3:30 here, I decided that I needed to get into Preston.
Naturally, Steve texts me whilst I'm on the bus heading into the city center to say that phone service was back and he was heading into Jacksonville. If I had waited just a few minutes more . . .
In Preston, I popped by the library long enough to return the "Lost" DVDs I had borrowed. I then bought some goodies for Steve (some McVitie's Ginger Nut cookies and some new Cadbury Twisted candy bars) at a store on Friargate. Then I came back. I had some cheese on toast for supper.
Steve said he's going to try and call from the airport. That'll be around 9 tonight, England time. I'm curling up with an interesting book about housing in Preston during the Industrial Revolution while I wait for his call.
So I guess that, even though I am a better wife than historian, I'm still an historian. :-)
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