DAY NINETEEN - Let the Games begin!

Came home to my friendly ménage à trois neighbors (please see Wiki for the more contemporary usage) in the living room chatting with Sandra -- as ordinary as you please. Malcolm, the master you-name-it-I-can-fix-it was working on a number of projects, while Michael, master of all things electronic, I found out soon enough, was laboring over installing our recently-delivered Wifi package. Hurray, after several hours, success! None too soon, either, as my shoulders are really aching from lugging my computer all about town several times every day. You would think a little old computer would weigh nothing, right?! (I have since discovered that the internet service we have is very much like the old original cell phone plans in which you could make long-distance calls only in the evening hours without incurring an exorbitant fee, and this continued until 8 o’clock in the morning when the main usage returned again to the business sector; whereas, in our case, it is in the reverse. Around 9pm, poof! off it goes, tidy as you please, till back on it comes, bright and early the next morning, good as gold. Curious.)

The Olympic Games began today with Opening Ceremonies up tonight, scheduled to begin at 20:12pm. Cool, huh?! (Here in England we are on military time, just so ya know.) And the nice thing was that in THIS country they want to make the Olympics as much a part of everybody’s life as they can, so WE got to see the opening broadcast live on TV. So there!

Wow, wow, a lot of work – all that choreography and all those amazing performers! Really beautiful, and phenomenal!! (So much so that I can hardly do it justice in describing it, so I will leave it to the expert. See below.) And then there were the fireworks to top off the production. Oh, man! They are so much fun to watch. (Of course, they’re always more fabulous in person, but seeing as how the remaining tickets were going for £1,600 – 2,012, I myself opted for the telly. And quite happy to have that as an option to choose from!)

According to the byline of the Telegraph, London’s major daily, The Opening Ceremony was bonkers, bold, brilliant – and so British. From flying cyclists and flaming petals to a parachuting Queen, Danny Boyle’s £27 million showstopper was an electrifying experience. Here’s the British sentiment as regards the whole of the enchilada, as very adeptly reported by Cole Morton, from inside the stadium:

              The first cheer was for the cows. A pair of them, swaying into the Olympic stadium at the head of a loose line of sheep, goats and geese with a shire horse behind. This was a long time before the start of the biggest show in the world, but thousands of us were already in our seats, unable to stay away. We cheered for the barmy, brilliant sight of cattle wandering into a patchwork of fields at the centre of the arena where later javelins will fly, to take their place among maypole dancers and cricketers in a recreation of the “green and pleasant land” of William Blake’s Jerusalem (Remember when I alluded to this British musical favorite in an earlier blog? Had a listen yet?).

There would be many far bigger spectacles to come over the next four hours of the opening ceremony, which was a jaw-dropping, dizzying display of bold and funny Britishness. We might not be able to summon up the massed ranks of a huge army as China did four years ago, but the show director Danny Boyle was out to prove that the British had more than enough wit and imagination to match their might, thank you.

               Some had spent thousands on a ticket, but that simple early moment with the cows showed that the stadium crowd were a warm, generous lot who “got” what Boyle was trying to do. Even the Queen was in on it, to a staggering degree.

               How many heads of state would allow the mickey to be taken out of them as Her Majesty did, to mark her arrival on one of the most important nights of her reign? She had taken to acting for the first time in her life to film a comedy sketch at Buckingham Palace with Daniel Craig as James Bond, and the pair of them were seen on screen flying down the river towards the stadium.

               We heard the sound of a real helicopter above our heads and looked up to see a pair of red, white and blue parachutes falling slowly, one with a man in a familiar dinner jacket and the other supporting a lady of a certain age in a long peach dress. And then – moments after her stunt double had landed in the Olympic Park – the Queen appeared in person in exactly the same dress. It was both a belly laugh and a wow, a moment of magic and majesty, a time to blink back tears and say, “Only the British could do that.”

               My head felt as if it would burst, and not just at the surrealism of it all. There was something very personal about all this, something that brought goose bumps and nearly tears. As a child, this was where I played. On the site of the stadium. Riding my bike through the landscape that politicians like to refer to as a wasteland. Yes, there were fridge mountains and scrapyards in those days.

               Yes, the ground had been toxic in places but there were still people making their lives there, running businesses, surviving and some thriving. I knew them. I loved the wildness and strangeness of it, as a teenager. As a man now, sitting in a seat millions would covet, I struggled at first to take in the enormity of the change. With the stadium lights flashing, it was as if an alien mother ship had landed on my old playground. We will have to see whether the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, as it will be called, will be the glorious public open space that is promised as its legacy, but on Friday night all cynicism was suspended.

               Perhaps it felt different to those watching on the television, but in the stadium the mood was electrifying. The Red Arrows roared overhead and Bradley Wiggins appeared in the yellow jersey of Britain’s first Tour de France winner to ring the biggest harmonically tuned bell in the world. As that rich, deep sound rang out, some of us felt, “It’s going to be OK. We’re not going to look silly here.” That’s the way the British think, at our worst. We cover our backs. At our best, we dare to do daft things for the sake of the good that might come of it, and that was what Danny Boyle did with his £27 million budget.

               For the first trick, he banished the rural idyll to bring in the Industrial Revolution with a mighty clang. Sir Kenneth Branagh appeared in a stovepipe hat as Isambard Kingdom Brunel on the slopes of the Tor, speaking the words of Caliban in The Tempest: “Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises/ Sounds, and sweet airs.”

               Birdsong that had played so peacefully over the million-watt speaker system gave way to the rising sound of drums, played first by Dame Evelyn Glennie with her hair whirling wild, then joined by many others in a thunderous rhythm. We were safe, we were in a show, but the music made it feel dangerous and even a little scary in that dark stadium, as chimneys pushed up from beneath the fields, belching smoke. The drums roared and factory workers drove the farm hands out. Five massive Olympic rings rose from the foundry on invisible wires, glowing red hot and sending out a waterfall of golden sparks that was reflected around us. I could smell the forge and found myself applauding wildly, excited at the sheer spectacle.

               So many people were swarming across the arena now, thousands of them. The great British tradition of volunteering was never seen in a more inspiring form than among those unpaid performers, who had given hour after hour of their time to get the movements right – sometimes practicing in secret in the most unglamorous of venues, such as the disused Ford car plant in Dagenham. Some had bust their knuckles learning to drum on buckets, some had been drenched to the skin to test that their costumes did not become see-through in the rain. Of which there was happily little.

               Six hundred of the volunteers were NHS staff, dressed up like old-fashioned doctors and nurses – think Hattie Jacques in Carry On Doctor – to push huge iron-frame beds with luminous pillows and sheets into the arena, forming the letters NHS and GOSH for Great Ormond Street Hospital. This was to be a celebration of health care for all, one of the values, Danny Boyle had said, of modern Britain: “We had no agenda other than values that we feel are true.”

JK Rowling read the opening to JM Barrie’s Peter Pan, the royalties from which go to GOSH. Bathed in blue light, the face of a giant baby that formed in the arena looked spookily like a death mask, but it provided a moment to think.

               As the children lay down to rest, a strange man was making faces in the orchestra. The wordless humour of Rowan Atkinson as Mr Bean does nothing for me, and Sir Simon Rattle and the London Symphony Orchestra deserved more than a fart joke with a piano, but jokes do communicate across national boundaries.

               The same could probably not be said for the next sequence, a love story about a boy and a girl who fall in love and woo each other through text messages and social networks. And what do they know in Tashkent or Timbuktu of Michael Fish and the hurricane of 1987? Have they ever danced to Tiger Feet by Mud? Danny Boyle didn’t seem to care as he celebrated British pop and television culture from the Fifties to the present day with a rapid montage of clips and sounds.

               This time the wow came from the music, and it was the angry sound of the Sex Pistols, whose Pretty Vacant was allowed to play and play. I was 11 when that came out, and living nearby, and when my Nan looked at Johnny Rotten snarling on Top of the Pops she asked, “You don’t like that, do you dear?” No, I said, meekly, but inside I was saying yes, yes, yes. And now here were the Pistols blaring out in the face of Her Majesty, the woman of whom they once sang, “She ain’t no human being”. Was this disrespectful to our national Nan? Nah. It was bold and affectionate, because when the Queen agrees to be seen jumping out of a helicopter you can do what you like.

               We’re cheeky, the British. We push it. But we also know when to pay respect, and there were several attempts at that. The faces of friends and family who could not be there had been sent in by the spectators and were projected on to the screens as Emeli Sandé sang Abide With Me so delicately it almost made the heart stop. As she did so, a young boy danced under the spotlight, trying to get through to his father, as dancers in scarlet enacted the struggle between life and death. A few seats away, one of the animators whose job it was to get us all physically involved was just standing there, tears on her cheeks.

               How would Boyle make the 90-minute parade of athletes from all nations interesting? The answer was he didn’t - although the soundtrack was set at a cracking pace to make them get a move on. Great Britain came last, at last, to a roar of approval. Sir Chris Hoy waved his flag without a holster and made it look like one of those little plastic Union Flags that greeted the torch on its journey around Britain.

               We needed another spectacle now and we got one, as cyclists wearing glowing white wings and dove tails encircled the stadium, a tribute to the tradition of birds being released to mark the opening of the Games. Then one rose on invisible wires and flew up to the roof. Another wow.

               After the obligatory speeches came the final act, the lighting of the flame. Would Boyle produce an iconic moment to rival the flaming arrow of Barcelona in 1992, or even the trembling hand of Ali in Atlanta? Yes he would, in a style that blew away all the speculation about which sporting icon would do the deed. David Beckham was kept outside the stadium, bringing the torch up the Thames in a speedboat and looking like a man indulging all his own James Bond fantasies. Sir Steve Redgrave, Daley Thompson and Dame Kelly Holmes only watched among other great British Olympians as seven young athletes carried the fire to an enormous ring of copper petals representing each nation. One flared, then another, until nearly 200 bursts of light rose on stalks that were almost invisible. The Olympic movement can be insufferably pompous, as if the ritual around the gathering of athletes every four years was part of a religion, but after all the gags, stunts and loud tunes, Boyle and his team now provided a moment of soul. The fiery petals came together in one enormous flame, the heat of which I could feel on my face. “This is for everyone,” the electronic display had said, and it felt true.

               Who lit the flame? Nobody famous. The icons stood aside. (There had been a good deal of speculation on the talk shows regarding who the chosen hero was apt to be. The favorite was Roger Bannister, named perhaps the greatest British Olympian of all times. Now in his eighties, he was the first to break the 4 minute mile. Sounds like a winner to me!)

               What did the rest of the world make of it? Who cared, frankly? For us, at the start of our Games, paid for with our money, it had been a moment of triumph. Bonkers, yes, and patchy in parts, but overall, brilliant. Danny Boyle had showed us at our most generous, inclusive, self-deprecating best. “And in the end,” sang Sir Paul McCartney – as this opening ceremony had showed – “the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

What more is there to say?

(By the way, appears that Google doodles is going to highlight a different major competition each 
       day - for all 16 of them!)

Photos_

                      

1- opening ceremonies wow

2- beach volleyball (had an email from Steve Taggart that read, have been enjoying your blog, though one photo made me wonder if I had misunderstood what what the British meant by "cheeky")

       

DAY EIGHTEEN - fire fighter's fair

The Fire-fighters Association of Grimsby holds an annual fair for
children and their families -- an opportunity to highlight their
services, to educate children on why their local firemen are good guys
and can be trusted when called upon in an emergency, to broaden
relationships with the community, and lastly, to act as a fund raiser
for the association (10 tokens for a fiver - 5 pounds). I came upon an announcement for this event –
where else?! but at my trusty local library. Sounded like the very
sort of thing I like to frequent!

Sandra started me off in the right direction, and said by the time I
got too far I’d no doubt run into oodles of people taking a similar
path. She wasn’t kidding! All I had to do was follow the bountiful
flow of small children and baby carriages all the way to the fire
station, and eventually to the rear yard of the facility where the
faire was being held.

[As a side note, I bumped into that adorable, friendly strawberry-haired young woman, Lindsay, whom I had first met so fortuitously that day at McDonalds when I was first trying to figure how to access their Wifi, and it ended up needing a cell phone to send a code via text to get started. She and her sweet boy had just met up with her mother – Alex was carrying a bouquet of flowers for grandma. I said, Let me guess! You’re on your way to the fireman’s fare, right?! And, of course, they were, just like everybody else journeying along in the companionship of children that sunny morning. She told her mom how we had gotten to know one another, and I remarked how everything was going great with that, and that I found myself there practically every day. She said, Brill! First time I’d ever heard that wonder urban slang. Love it!]

There were hundreds of people -- children and their parents and
grandparents. All the usual sweet and patient parents, and then
there’re always those frustrated and bad tempered parents, just
waiting for the opportunity to be intolerant and grouchy. Events like
this just seem to bring out the best, and the worse, in people. Well,
we’ve all been there, done that, in our day . . .

The format of the fair included fire-fighter demonstrations, several
local and national health service displays, and a plethora of game
booths to the delight of the children. One of the favorites, and with
definitely the longest line, was the fireman dunking booth. You’ve
seen those at school carnivals, etc. Very fun, with the anticipation
that your polished throw – or your lucky accident, as it were – would
be THE ONE that resulted in the poor, precariously perched volunteer
careening head over heels. The anticipation was intense. You
remember?!

The thing about this particular dunking booth was that  it was pretty
much rigged, and EVERY kid who gave up his token, after 3 tries –
whether he hit hard and true enough or not – would send another,
already wet, fireman plunging into the tank. The kids didn’t seem to
notice or care – though it kind of took away the challenge for me –
that as soon as they threw their last wimpy throw, down Mr. Fireman
would go. Splash! The way it was set up, the little guys couldn’t
really even see through the netting to the action or the attending
fireman in attendance pushing the lever. Nor did they seem to care.
Oh, well. I seemed to be the ONLY one at the fair who gave it a
second thought. I imagine those very young parents had seen it done
exactly the same way themselves when they were trying to dunk the
fireman back in their day. Worth noting is that I spend a ridiculous
amount of time, fighting my way through the octopus of on-looker arms
and legs, angling my camera just right, with the goal of catching the
falling hero, half way back, with his feet up in the air. And I could
NEVER do it. Never -- not even in 29 tries! (No kidding!) Was I
determined, or what? Guess I won’t be moving up to action photography
any time soon! Man, talk about being frustrated and grouchy!!



Photos_

      1-        Mums, dahds, and grandparents at the fair -- and, oh, yes, kids, too!
      2-        Photo shoot
      3-        The best of all the rest

DAY SEVENTEEN - here's to the men

Happy birthday to the grandest brother in all the land!! I still
remember fondly when he was born, and how the next day at church
someone asked, So, what’re going to name him? Brigham?! Nope, not if
his mum has anything to say about it! Which, of course, the truth of
the matter is that she had EVERYTHING to say about it, and it was
going to be Scottish P Lovebush!!

All over England, no matter where you go, you see men, mostly, in
official-looking utility vests. Fluorescent orange, green, or yellow
-- so you’ll be sure not to miss them, I guess. This apparel is REALLY
common. From policemen, security guards, firemen; civic utility, road
maintenance, and construction workers;
bus drivers, ambulance drivers, to refuse collectors (Speaking of
which, one really great thing around here is that there are municipal
dustbins/trash cans placed along most every street, lane, and avenue,
in the most strategic of locations. Not that that guarantees people
are necessarily going to use them more frequently or anything -- just
because they're there. But I, for one, DO, and appreciate it!): you
name it -- they all wear them! (It appears these primarily involve outdoor jobs.) Makes me
wonder who holds the majority of the stock in the company that
produces and distributes these vests? Maybe that’s one of the perks
for being the Prime Minister -- you get the residuals from the
fluorescent uniform exchange!

To add further clarification to this observation, Leah tells me that because of England’s overactive health and safety concerns (specifically a commission called RoSpa – The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, and this is for reals - if you don’t believe me, look it up!),  people in certain jobs are REQUIRED to wear said vests – that, in fact, her own children wear them while being walking to school from the care center responsible to see them properly off each morning when their mum’s is also teaching. This national obsession has invited conservatives the likes of Iain Macleod to refer to England as the “Nanny State.” (See Wikipedia for a very interesting take on the topic.)

Speaking of men, in this case painters, the first day after I’d
arrived, Sandra led me (kicking) to that charity shop that is closest
to home -- Tukes Independent Traders (in fact found a unique gift
there for Scott just today). They had an oval mirror for sale that she
wanted them to paint to match the other furniture items she’d bought
from them recently. (You may recall I mentioned that this particular
charity shop has a furniture component that refinishes (to order, if
so desired) and re-sells donated furniture. She was trying to
determine which of several white shades was the one she had gotten
previously. It had kind of a greenish cast, she recalled. The
assistant suggested, Well, it could have been Shaded White, but I’m
really thinking it was Elephant’s Breath.  (Yes, this is no kidding!)
Turns out it was the latter. Sandra remarked to me on the way home, if
I’d known that was the name, I wouldn’t have ordered it!!


Photos_

 1- what I told Scott he had to look forward to
 2- vest world
 3- our refuge collection, aka dust bin cart – picking up the week’s dust

DAY SIXTEEN - Pioneer Day

I don’t know what it is but somehow I seem to have this built in
affinity, this natural magnetism, for being in the right place at the
wrong time, for starting off my days in the most exciting of ways! I
don’t know what it is. Just lucky, I guess! Take this morning, for
instance: I was crossing the RR tracks, just across the corner from
St. James’, which leads into the town center, when all of sudden the
warning alarm began to go off and before I knew it the guard was
coming down – and right onto my right shoulder! Thankfully not very
hard, causing me instinctively to jump forward out of the way, not so
good  because immediately I noticed that I was INSIDE the rails, on
the track side. Oh, great! Not to worry, though, as the bell always
sounds well before the train approaches, so wasn’t in imminent danger.
Would have made a good silent movie – me jumping back and forward,
fighting to find my way through the maze!

On Sunday Brother Rod Collier, a member of the bishopric, found me
outside waiting in the back for our ride home. He said he had wanted
to greet me (somehow he had noticed me there amongst the
congregation), but that one contact or another had prevented him from
catching up with me in the chapel. (Besides that, after my dressing
down, I had high tailed it out of there, I can tell you, to cool my
burning face.) Reading straight through my unrelenting curiosity, he
mentioned that, in case I was interested (Me?!), a lot of church
history had actually taken place in this very locale -- right here in
little ol’ Grimsby!  AND that he would be happy to share the
information he knew with me sometime.

Just for a teaser, to go along with the subtitle, I can tell you that
Grimsby, being about THE major port on the northeast side of England,
was the very spot where early Church converts would have landed, on
their way across the country to Liverpool, from whence they boarded a
ship to sail the long distance across the Atlantic Ocean on their way
to America – and eventually, Zion, in the west. That would have
included our Scandinavian ancestors, trekking their way over from
Denmark, Norway, and Sweden.

[Came across another Debbie (yes, we both admitted it was a common
name among women of our age): the librarian here on the reference
floor, who helped me figure out how to print something today. (Had to
log onto one of the library’s computers in order to do it. All of us
library card holders are allotted a ready 30 free minutes of usage per
day at these stations. Also has a secure server, unlike the public
PolkaSpots network in the library or the O2 wifi available at MacDs.)
Deborah Jane. Nice – another Cabbage Patch-sounding name.]

Photos_

1-      the legendary Grimsby Docks - with museum on the present site, the
National Heritage Fishing Center
2-      a forefather of Grimsby, at his nets
3-      RR crossing - site of my most recent “incident,” with train, sans me

Postscript_  Oh man, you should have seen the size of the spider I
found -- on its side – in the sink last evening. Ugh. Gave me a start,
I can tell you. I thought spider first, then nah, must be the green
top on a tomato. Shared that information with Sandra, who got up out
of her chair for that one. “Are you sure it’s not the green stem top
to a tomato?” Man, I don’t think so, but maybe I’m just imagining
things. (Interesting that she had the exact same thought as me, and
she hadn’t even seen it yet!) Yeah, it was a dead spider alright. She
casually said that it must have washed up into the sink with the
clothes washer water. (Probably didn't even begin to compare to the
gigantuans Erin encountered in Africa, but hey! this baby was BIG,
I'll tell you!) Oh, boy, kind of threw me off for the rest of
the evening. Where did it come from and where else are THOSE monstrous
things hiding?!

DAY FIFTEEN - the dotters

Summer arrived with a vengeance -- or as I like to think, it erupted
onto the scene like fireworks! The "dotters" (Richard's term for those
who are dotty), in this case, his mom and her cronies -- that includes
me, of course -- headed for Cleethorpes, the seaside/resort kind of
place which is as close to Grimsby as Jenny's work from our house in
Provo. (I am getting a better and better idea of distances!) It is
right on the Humber Estuary (please refer to your Google maps) -- that
big gash on the northeastern side of England, as I pointed out to some
of you. Going down to the beach for the first time (last time you may
recall , if you are following this closely, we just charity shop
hopped), I discovered that I could find ocean nowhere, only miles and
miles of sand, going out as far as my eyes could see, with teeny, tiny
little rivulets, here and there which children and teens followed
splashingly along. Al in all a perfect place for small fries to frolic
and play, with never the fear of being washed out to sea. (Sandra
tells me that the tide ebbs and flows there, though I have not seen it
myself. Though I will, because Leah and family are coming next week to
make it a beach holiday, and I know we will be spending a good deal of
time at the beach. It surely is a perfect kid place to be. As school
is on recess there were many families lining the streets, eating ice
cream cones and parading about in their best summer outfits.

Passed a sign that read, Traffic Calming Zone. Sounds like a place
where you give your car a shot of Prozac to keep it under control! And
then there's the rental signs often found on the side of buildings,
and usually way up high, that say To Let. I've been amused by that
sign ever since coming to England for the very first time. You know
why, of course?! 'Cause it's like the word toilet – having dropped the
middle "i". Pretty silly, huh?! For more intriguing signs, refer to
the photograph. A sign just calling my name!

When you purchase a round-trip ticket for the bus, an out and back,
the term is you want a DayRider. (Now I know the reference for the
Beatle title, Daytripper.) Speaking of The bus, had the opportunity
for another missionary moment again today. I have decided, to keep
myself from feeling guilty on account of basically I live a pretty
selfish life with no obligations, that being friendly, though a tiny
thing in the great scheme of things, is my job in life right now. I
hope people will see the light in my eyes and have the desire to ask
about it. As we were riding along I had the opportunity of asking a
nice old gentleman behind me a direction question and we ended getting
in a discussion about religious matters. It is a common thing that
first you are asked - as you're the one standing out for a change,
with that unusual accent -- Where're you from, then when the
conversation leads to Utah, often the next question is "Mormon?" and
it goes from there. This man's first comment was where was Jesus when
Jews were being killed like flies in the concentration camps? I
wouldn't labor you by going any further into this conversation but I'm
sure our positive interaction planted some seeds. He did say, I spoke
with two young men just the other day on the street, who also happened
to be Mormons. Actually I know those very two young men -- happened to
see them just yesterday -- and have bumped into them street tracking
in various places around town. Frist met them at Sandra's when she fed
them and they painted her fence. I teasingly refer to them as Elder
Idaho and Elder Georgia, as I have a hard time remembering names – but
I can remember where they're from!

The dotters spent their time eating out, sunning themselves on a bench
overlooking the beach, or "giving to charity," and . . . opening bank
accounts! --speaking for myself. Yeah! I had had such a positive
experience at Lloyds back on my first whole day in England when Sandra
had taken me to Cleethorpes, that I have just been waiting to get back
there. Yes, there's a nice, large, local Lloyds right in Grimsby where
I hang out – in fact, my friend, Maureen, is even a customer service
person there -- but nobody has said the right words like the gentleman
in Lloyds in Cleethorpes had: Yes, we can do that!! All I needed was
my passport (in Grimsby, they had just hemmed and hawed around and
said, things like, well, gosh I don't know, and gee, I'm not sure.
Well, the heck with them! (Wait till I show Maureen tomorrow. Serves
'em right!) Of course, Cleethorpes is just a branch, so all my banking
needs from now on will be conducted close to home. Just had to git
down th' road, on th' bus, to gitter done! Yeah, a major goal sorted
out. Now I am all set to do my part to help ramp up the floundering
British economy!!

Such a big girl! Identified and rode the bus home from Cleethorpes all
on my own and knew just where I was when we entered back into Grimsby
home territory. Wow! Good Job!!

[On a side note, my thumb is looking good, coming right along in the healing process. I was reviewing the regimen last night. My gosh, the doctor wrote down 10 weeks of do this, then that,etc. I am following it carefully. Don't want to mess with your thumb. And besides, the splint and I have become fast friends!]  


Photos

1- The bee helping the British Heart Association be healthier
2- A sign meant just for me
3- On Cleethorpes beach

DAY FOURTEEN - mind the step (or misstep, as it were, referring to the cheeky ones -- steps, that is)

Had an unexpected start to the day. It was another sunny morning, so
went to go outside to see if going to church would require my Sunday
jacket or not. I don't go out that way often (anyway near enough
apparently!), so as I stepped out of the French window (door) from the
dining room into the garden, I failed to take into account that the
house is a good deal higher than the patio. (As you go from the dining
room into the kitchen inside the house, you step down into it, so from
the kitchen's French window, you are already down where you need to be
to go outside.) There's a substantial drop there, and because of that,
a lovely large rectangular stone has been set to bridge the gap. Me?
In my haste, fell right through the opening. What a surprise! Sandra
saw me through the kitchen and rushed right over to see if I was
alright. (Erin, my luv, I know you can predict exactly what I said:
"Oh, yes, I'm just fine," as I hopped up. Erin knows because she's
been around me on similar such occasions! "Oh, mom!") Just a slight
twist, tweak, what have you. Must have gone to catch myself as I went
to fall, and landed a bit precariously on my right foot. Anyway, I
guess I did catch myself, because there are no scraps or anything --
just a little wrench to the right ankle. (No injury to mark the spot;
I'm just suffering in silence, sniff.)

With Monsieur Mike's enticement (that's what I've decided to call
Mike. He just deserves more of a moniker then plain old, one-syllable
"Mike"!), telling me that this coming week would be an especially good
Sunday to visit St. James', as an expansion of the regular service
would be held because the current vicar, Father David, was moving on
to a new assignment, and therefore, this would be his last week, and a
special send-off. As I mentioned, I had reluctantly accepted the fact
that I would never be able to attend as their and our services
overlapped. A day or so ago I realized that our sacrament meeting was
the last meeting of the day, so if I fudged a little, I could get it
all in – well, at least the most important meeting of the day. So I
decided, just this once, on this really special occasion, that is
exactly what I would do! Before leaving I got my notebook out and sat
down for directions from Sandra on exactly how to get to the church on
the bus by myself from here. (Petra, our usual ride, has gone to
Germany for a coupla weeks.) Sandra said you will not need to write
this down; because, as she was feeling worn out this morning, she
would be going only to sacrament meeting, AND therefore, we would be
calling a taxi to get to sacrament meeting. (Works for me! Up to now I
haven't had to wrestle with bus-schedule consternation on my own, so
why start now!)

Went merrily on my way (with just a wee bit of a limp). The plan was
that I would partake of as much of the service as I had time for
before gimping back to catch the cabbie to sacrament meeting – and the
REAL church! I am delighted to report that several blocks before St.
James' came into sight I began to hear the bells ringing from the bell
tower. There were a fair amount of persons walking in that general
direction, though I soon discovered that the majority of them turned
off to the right, towards the more immediate rewards of commercial
enterprise. As I entered the churchyard I was surprised to discover
cars parked in the square itself, up close to the church's entrance
(see photo) -- paver stones and grass. A broad estimate is that there
were maybe a group of around a 100 persons in the assemblage this day,
of many ages, mostly old though, of course.

Very soon to my having taken my seat the service began – I had been
delayed longer than anticipated by the event of my slight plummet.
[Sidelight: heard a lady sitting in front of me, as a part of her
conversation, say the phrase, collie dog. Must say it brought back
memories. My kids will know what that refers to – well, at least the
older ones will.]
The pageantry began: a procession of robed ecclesiasts (yes, women
were in the group) began on the far side and walked from front to the
back, turned and then headed down the middle aisle. Banners held high,
some with articles of service in their hands. One of the first things
that happened was that the children were called up to the front, on
their way to a separate Sunday School. The Father David knelt down and
chatted amicably with them briefly. Then blessed them as a group (put
you in mind of anything?), before releasing them to their teachers, at
which point they disappeared from view. Next the vicar blessed the
whole group of us in the congregation, forgave us of our sins by the
sign of the cross -- by the mere act of being part of the congregation
that particular day. (Man, that was easy!)

In case you haven't had the chance of visiting many other churches,
many -- including the Anglican Church – follow a set procedure, a
proscribed script: printed up and presented to us upon entering – in
order that we could follow word for word, and not lose our way. It may
vary for special occasions, but pretty much follows a very specific,
set format. (Who knows; perhaps all over the UK today, churches
everywhere throughout the land are hearing and saying the exact same
words we are!) It was made up of segments such as, The Gathering,
(including, during this phase, The Greeting, at which time we
exchanged a sign of peace by turning to our neighbor on either side
and shook or squeezed hands whilst looking caringly-like into their
eyes, and then to those in front and behind us, all along repeating
the words, Christ's words, peace be with you.Some walked about the
rows of the large room, expanding their collection of well-wishers),
The Prayers, The Recitations, etc. and on and on. (The scriptures
mingled with the philosophies of men!) Of course, I have not listed
any specific order here (as my program, which lists every single word
that is spoken by the vicar or the congregation or by prescribed
readers, is home – and I'm not! I'm sure there would be more I'd like
to add if I had it with me. Aren't you lucky!) – but primarily it is
readings from the scriptures or the writings of men, by us, the
congregation, or them, the ecclesiasts; prayers by the vicar or the
deacon, in this case a very thoughtful grey-haired woman with a butch
hair cut (I thought it was interesting that she prayed for the
well-being of a former priest – now deceased!); singing by us or the
youthful choir (more about that in a minute); and as "the gifts of the
bread and the wine are brought to the altar," the obligatory passing
of the collection plate takes place (Ya gotta get that in there. Sorry
to say, I did not participate! Though I did my best at singing the
hymns, the words also printed in the program -- sight reading without
music.); and more blessings had all around.

One part of the program was the Sermon by the departing head vicar,
Father David. What I thought was especially interesting was the way
his words for his remarks were spoken in the common man's vernacular,
in a very down to earth manner. (At all other times during the
ceremony, he resumed that sing-songy voice you might expect a priest
to use during recitation.) It was very much like a fine talk we might
hear in our own sacrament meeting – with a few variations, of course.
In referring to our relationship with God/Christ he used the
terminology that often as humans, we God's children desire/demand the
Crown before the Cross, Easter before Good Friday, but that isn't the
Father's way. We have to earn it by the lives we live. I liked that
image.

As regards the choir, from the moment they first began to sing,
catching me off guard, with my nose following the printed word, I
looked up to see a small group of young men. The voice of the soloist,
perhaps thirteen or fourteen years young, was exquisite. (Sandra tells
me that the members of the choir come from the local St. James School,
from where they receive their training.) At first I couldn't even tell
that he was the one singing, he did it SO smoothly and effortlessly,
amazing full sound. Words cannot describe. You'll just have to imagine
your own experiences in this regard.

The sacrament portion of the service consisted of breaking of the
host, the wafer, looking very much like a very thin tortilla, and
pouring of the wine. The ecclesiastic group in the front partook
first, choosing a piece from the plate offered, and then all drinking
from the same silver chalice, being wiped with a cloth by the one
offering it between swallows. (That surprised me; I would have assumed
that practice had long since been abandoned.) As the congregation
lined up in the middle aisle for their turn, it was time for me to go
so I was not able to see the manner in which the wine was apportioned
to that group.


Well, enough of that, now on to the REAL church: For a group of about
60, only three deacons (jumping right to the quick/skipping the
preliminaries – you all know the protocol!) were needed to pass the
sacrament -- this because the chapel is divided into a long row,
covering 3/4s of the width, with a much smaller row along the right
side, as you look towards at the pulpit. One observation I made:
having just come from the Anglican Church a short time before, what
with its ceremonial context and all, when the sacrament prayer in our
ward was given, it sounded ever so much to my ears like something I
had experienced a short time before -- in particular because it was
given by a 40-yearish priesthood holder (deeper sounding timbre in the
voice), who did so very slowly and deliberately, especially reverently
and meaningfully -- AND in a British accent) . Does that make sense?
Can you imagine what I mean? It was interesting. When the younger
Aaronic priesthood holder said the second prayer, the spell was gone.

That completed, the presiding bishopric member announced that between
talks there would be a musical item by the choir. (Sing out, choir!
Consisted of about 7 women and 3 gentlemen.) The talks (given by an
older mom, like me, and her daughter and son-in-law) evolved around
the theme of what it means to love thy neighbor, on a day to day
basis. Some thoughts included: The greatest harm being judgmental has
is that it affects ones own spirituality adversely. Amen -- to me. The
atonement offers us the opportunity for continued repentance. (Thus
the baptism unto repentance, often referred to by Alma. Eh, Erin?) The
second spoke of our spiritual journey, that anything vulgar, crude, or
immodest shuns the spirit. They were all excellent talks/speakers,
encouraging us to live better lives, that we may grow closer to the
spirit. I enjoyed their words immensely. The woman who gave the
closing prayer prayed that we might encourage others we met along the
way this week. My aspiration, exactly! (Doing my darndest to listen
carefully during the talks without being distracted in a new land and
circumstance, I happened to notice [Hey, no distraction here!) that
written across the top of the pages of the hymnal appeared the code:
G'Y. Had to think on that a little.*)

I have a confession to make (as referenced in the subtitle)—and, oh,
man, isn't this just the Debbie we all know – and love! Seems I
pushed my tourist status one step too far -- resulted in my receiving
a sound scolding from Sandra. Well, see, it's like this: as I had just
been at St. James', and admit like a danged tourist taking a picture
during the service (Cheeky!). Well, I guess I was in the mode and
there were a pair of darling sisters in front of us, the one holding
her arm nurturingly around the other – and they weren't little
children either. I just couldn't resist the temptation to be a
photographer and capture the moment. (Cheekier still!!) Well, I did it
a coupla times, till Sandra turned to me and told me in so many words
what she thought of that behavior. And when sacrament meeting was
over, she told me exactly how she felt about the whole incident, in a
good many words – and that was that she was embarrassed. I felt very
penitent by then, I can tell you, and shameful. And didn't I have it
coming?! Yes, surely; I had been a naughty girl. Obviously it wasn't
appropriate. (Cheeky indeed!!) What can I say? I just couldn't help
it: it was just SO danged endearing! "Would I have done that in my own
church service back home?!" Definitely not!! (Well, maybe . . .
given the right circumstance . . .)


ps Got two compliments today: one at St James' where a lady admired my crazily, caramel-colored hair, and secondly, at the Grimsby Ward from a sister in regards to my new skirt (ferreted out at the Car Boot sale the day previously) Yes, good find!

*Took me a minute to conclude it stood for Grimsby. (Well, duh!) Is
that what you got?



Photos_
 1- The majestic counterfeit, St. James'
 2- Interior shot
 3- The REAL church - Grimsby First and Second Ward Building