Port Meadow Frost

“What do you miss the most about home?” asked an American friend visiting Oxford. It was a rainy December day.

“Snow!” My children replied before I could answer.

Brunswick, Maine on New Year’s Day 2008 (by Stephanie Foster)

I had been missing snow until a deep frost settled over Port Meadow. My dog and I set off for our morning walk in mist so thick that it was hard to find the horizon. Bike ruts in the frozen grass looked like ski trails in snow. The meadow is a flood bank for the River Thames (called the Isis only in Oxford) and communal grazing grounds.

At this time of year, the cattle are gone and only a couple dozen horses are left to forage. Their warm breath melted the frost into green grass as the sun was struggling to burn through the clouds. Could this be England? I felt inside the pages of an Annie Proulx story, home on the western range. Or maybe a late Rothko painting?

A Shetland pony, not much bigger than my dog, watched us with curiosity. She looked warm in her shaggy coat, even dripping frost. My dog wanted to play, but the pony lost interest once she realized that Stella’s tennis ball was not a green apple. Seeing us every day, the herd barely twitch an ear at my bouncing golden retriever.

Despite the chill, Stella was eager to get to the river. She swims in the ocean year round back in Maine. Seagulls, geese and swans eyed my swimming retriever nervously, but Stella kept her eye on the ball. The Greylag Geese were once domesticated but now have gone wild, interbreeding with Canada geese. The Queen owns the swans. No one can explain what seagulls are doing here this far inland.

As we headed down the river past the lock, the water became a mirror. Another walker and his dogs were dots along the bank. Despite the beauty of dawn, we were otherwise alone. Even the wind had slept in.

The only sound was the honking gaggle of geese. The meadow teams with myriads of migrating water fowl and attending bird watchers during the fall. My son and I once surprised some black and white birds that took off with a startled “Eeek!”

Port Meadow is dog heaven for a retriever. Every writer should have a dog. I do some of my best thinking for my novels on our walks. I’m sure Port Meadow will feature in NOT CRICKET. Not so sure about the wet dog . . . .

Happy New Year! We spent ours in Cambridge.

Did other bloggers have trouble up-loading images or publishing? I fear everyone made a blog-more-often New Year's resolution.

An English Christmas

A swan feather frost covered Port Meadow last Thursday, but it melted into mist long before Christmas. I remember one magical year in Britain when we awoke to a sparkling frost, but mostly a white Christmas in England means dense fog. Back home in Brunswick, Maine, they’ve had 28 inches of snow just in December. Our buddy, Pete Coviello was out ice fishing.

When it comes to Christmas spirit, the Brits snow anyone over. Our corner shop, the Post Box in Wolvercote, has covered every surface in tinsel with Christmas crackers (more on that later) hanging from the ceiling. Carl, another Brit married to an American, decks his shop out “for the children.” He sells what I would call miniature X-mas trees along with his usual supply of free range eggs, organic juices, fresh veg, milk and canned goods. It’s also our post office but only open a couple of odd hours on assorted days. There is something very small town American about a post office/convenience store. It brings a community together.

Oxford at Christmas

All of Britain basically shuts down over Christmas, a national holiday. Even the trains don’t run for two days. Holiday cards are clipped to red ribbons and hung from the moldings. Most have nativity scenes or pastoral scenes in snow instead of the ubiquitous family photos and Santas you see in the US. Christmas feels far less commercial in the UK although many Brits go into debt paying for it. Decorations will stay up until twelfth night. People say "Happy Christmas" instead of "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays;" there is but one holiday for most of England.

We spent the long weekend with Henry’s family in Goring-on-Thames. It was a tight squeeze: 11 people and 2 dogs. The children helped their grandparents harvest mistletoe from the old crab apple tree. It spreads like ivy, clumping into balls – the male is yellowish and the female has the distinct white berries. They save a sprig for their house and barter the rest for a Christmas tree. Bits of holly are collected from the countryside to place over portraits of ancestors (that’s my husband’s great grandfather, Steven Cattley.)



Saturday was a “champagne” and canapés luncheon we all helped prepare for village friends. The English sparkling wine was surprisingly good. Camel Valley is in Cornwall. I met an old friend of Henry’s, the photographer Charlie Glover. His wife, Miranda Glover, writes women’s fiction just like me. We had fun talking shop and planned to get together soon. Like my character from NOT CRICKET, Miranda was at Oxford in the 1980's and recently moved back to the area. I’d love to meet her writer friends as I miss my support community in Brunswick. Writing is a lonely profession.

On Christmas Eve we had Christmas cake for tea. It’s a dense fruitcake with a two-layer frosting: marzipan then white sugar.

After tea we crossed the River Thames to Streatley to attend the children’s service at St. Mary’s. My son was christened in this 13th century church in a Georgian gown, a family heirloom. Note the small cars.

The service told the story of Jesus’s birth and invited the children to bring up the animals and figures to fill in the manger. Candles dripped as we sang carols. The children placed presents by the tree for underprivileged children.

On the walk back home, we stopped at the old Goring Mill. The woman who lives there creates a life size paper mache manger in her living room. The children count the little creatures (this year baby owls) and write the number down for a raffle. She also collects donations for her Swan Lifeline, aiding injured swans. My question is: why doesn’t the wealthy Queen look after her ailing swans?

At 6pm a torchlight procession gathers in Goring and in Streatley, convening in the fields for carol singing around a huge bonfire. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of participants. The flaring torches seemed to float above the river as they crossed the bridge.

To warm up, Henry and I slipped into our favorite Goring pub, the Catherine Wheel, for Hobgoblin bitter by the roaring fire. The pub was decked out for the holidays and full of families.

For Christmas Eve dinner we had lamb tagine followed by 3 puddings (English for dessert). The adults had mince pie, which is a miniature pie of dried fruit and minced meat or a substitute, which is topped with brandy butter and then drowned in double cream. For the children, my mother-in-law had crafted a Chocolate Log, which is basically a Maine whoopie pie: chocolate cake and whipped cream with a sprig of holly. Since I’m lactose intolerant (a sad fate in Britain,) Nicola had made a caramelized orange pudding for me. We never made it to the stilton and port.

After pudding, it was time for Christmas crackers. Two people pull (or you circle round the table) and crack! Inside is a paper crown and dinky prize for the winner like nail clippers. Also a dumb joke eg: what do you call a person who's afraid of Santa? Claustrophobic! Dear Elizabeth, an elderly cousin, buys enormous quantities of crackers so that no one is a loser. "There can never be too many crackers on Christmas,” says she.

On Christmas morning the children woke before sunrise for their stockings. We had a candlelit breakfast of croissants since the sun doesn’t rise until after eight. It sets before 4pm. We are even farther north than Maine. My father-in-law gets little sleep at Christmas since he was out past midnight ringing church bells at both Goring and Streatley. Before having children, we used to attend the 11pm carol service. Never one to complain about duty, Capt. Tony Laurence rang in Christmas morning as well.

Most of the grown ups headed to church and to champagne at a neighbors’ while Henry and I took the 4 children and 2 dogs for a walk along the Thames tow path. My nine-year-old nephew slid in over his wellies, and before we knew it, the 3 younger children were sliding down the muddy banks and jumping in the river with the dogs! It was raining so I hadn’t brought my camera. I was cold just watching them, but they have English blood.

It was a good distraction, as the children were going crazy waiting to open presents. This could not commence until after the Queen’s speech although my son suggested just watching it later on You Tube (half a million did!) At 3pm we gathered round “the telly” to hear the longest reigning British monarch address her nation. Then it was time for more tea and gifts. I got 2 umbrellas! That scared the rain away, and we were treated to a rare sunset. Note the balls of mistletoe in the tree.

Christmas dinner in England is always turkey, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts. My husband and his sister Charlotte prepared the feast while the rest of us played charades. Nicola already made a traditional chestnut and sausage stuffing. There was also bread sauce made by simmering a clove-studded onion in milk (or, yet again, cream) and then dissolving breadcrumbs into it with seasonings.

The climax of the evening is the flaming Christmas pudding. Brandy is ignited that spreads to the sprig of holly. The pudding itself is alcohol infused fruitcake with hidden sixpences. The lucky make a wish on the old currency; the unlucky break a tooth!


Christmas was not over the next morning. On Boxing Day we journeyed out on the ancient ridgeway for a long walk. We passed through the site of the old Roman temple (below). The undulating greens were from a pastoral painting. An English Christmas is like stepping back in time.


Today it was 64F/18C! My son and I walked along the canal into Oxford. Last week's frost seems so long ago. Have a Happy New Year! It's been a fun first year of blogging for me, and I've enjoyed your comments. Thank you!

Novels About Schools

Blackwell's is my favorite bookstore in Oxford, established in 1879. It feels cozy but is enormous like a college library.

For inspiration writing S.A.D., I have read five good novels about schools. I’m passing the list along in case you’re looking for holiday reading or gifts. On that note, next week's blog might be one day late.

The closest book to my S.A.D. is Tom Perrotta’s The Abstinence Teacher released this fall in the U.S.A. It’s not due in the U.K. until January, so my mother sent me a copy from NYC. The clocks are the only things ahead in England. [AND national health care, public television and punk rock, says my English husband.]

Both Perrotta’s and my novel concern evangelicals trying to change the high school curriculum. It's a coincidence as I started S.A.D. last year before his book was published. His novel looks at Sex Ed. while mine looks at Biology and the Intelligent Design vs. Evolution debate.

Perrotta is one of my favorite authors. His novels are at their best when parodying suburban life. Perrotta is clearly a devoted soccer dad, inviting you along for a ride in his minivan with a cynical laugh. Stonewood Heights is neither very liberal nor too conservative and appears the ideal place to raise a family. That is until the evangelicals spread through the community like The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

The protagonist is a divorced sex-ed teacher and her romantic foil a Born Again former rocker drug abuser. Perrotta is surprisingly good at mastering both the female and the male voices, straight or gay, and creating real characters in tangible settings. He writes very well and manages to make all topics accessible and amusing.

The Abstinence Teacher is a catalogue of sexual dysfunction, but it only tackles teen sex as flashbacks by the middle aged characters. This seems a curious omission since teenage sexuality is a bigger issue now than in the 1980's. The book is tastefully done, not prurient, and based on a solid understanding of evangelicalism. It has gotten a couple of favorable reviews in the NYT and deserves the attention.

I also enjoyed Perrotta's Little Children, a humorous tale of suburban malaise. His first novel, Election, took six years to sell, and the movie writes sold first, staring Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick. That one is also set in school, centering on a high school president election.

Another book set in an American public (ie. state) high school is Jodi Picoult’s latest, Nineteen Minutes. Picoult’s novel tries to understand school shootings from the perpetrator’s perspective. It’s a disturbing look at bullying and the shortfall of community. The accused shooter is almost as much a victim as his targets.

Picoult is a master of writing fast-paced, topical stories centered on families. Her books appeal to both teens and adults as she dexterously bridges the generation gap with the sensitivity of a former teacher. She's had many best sellers, even internationally. On almost any airplane ride, you'll find a woman reading one and gripped. It's not fluff: Picoult does her research, tackles the issues and writes well.

Her work is distinct, a genre to itself. Amazingly, Picoult produces a new novel every nine months. She notes with amusement that it is the same duration as pregnancy. It helps that her husband is at home raising their three children. Despite the upsetting topics, her books are easy reads. Another one that questions conventional ethics in the new world is My Sister’s Keeper. I just started The Tenth Circle.

David Mitchell’s Black Swan Green is another book about bullying in school, but his tale takes place at an English state school during the 1980’s. It’s full of fun, nostalgic trivia. The narrator is a 13-year-old boy and a secret poet with an embarrassing stammer. The accounts of bullying are so real that they are hard to read, but Mitchell balances the darkness with humor.

Mitchell’s voice is original and engaging. I’m looking forward to reading more of his work. Structurally Black Swan Green reads like interlocking short stories or some YA chapter books. My 13-year-old son enjoyed it too, although it is more geared towards an adult audience. It’s a book that works on two levels of maturity. My husband is reading it now. It’s one of the best books I’ve read this year. It’s so well written.

Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep is about the elite world of New England boarding schools. A Midwesterner gets a scholarship to a school similar to Groton (Sittenfeld is an alum.) Leigh struggles academically and socially, making poor choices, especially sexually. She obsesses over a boy who is as accepted as she is spurned. Prep is a keen observation of setting and character. Unfortunately the protagonist is not likable enough to be sympathetic. Still it is an interesting view of privilege and class.

Like Picoult’s books, Prep has been popular with teenagers as well as adults. Prep is far less appropriate for teens than a Picoult novel. Picoult suffuses her narratives with moral lessons on safe sex and the consequences of bullying, whereas Sittenfeld paints a realistic portrait of degradation like rotting, over-priced fruit. There is a voyeuristic feel to Prep, but the writing is sophisticated.

If you’re looking for a more cozy-up-by-the-fire book, I’d recommend Joanna Trollope’s The Choir, even for those not religiously inclined. It’s a heartwarming story of village life in England where the clash between old and new generations takes on layers of meaning. Trollope writes well and is engaging, although sometimes her myriad of characters are hard to follow.

Trouble starts when the vicar proposes to renovate the church at the expense of the boys’ choir. The choir school dates back to King Henry VIII but lacks legal standing. The town is torn apart by the controversy that tests old friendships and divides families. In this way, The Choir is similar to S.A.D. as an exploration of the inter-personal, quirky world of small town politics and the danger of mixing church and state.

Happy Holidays and Good Reading!

Click on "comments" at the bottom of Unusual Holiday Lights for more school books.

If you know of other good novels on schools, please comment below.

Unusual Holiday Lights

The Christmas lights around Oxford seem quite understated after the USA. Back home in Brunswick, Maine people go wild. I’ve seen a dry-docked boat towing a skiing snowman and Santa with all the reindeers on the roof. First prize for original Christmas lights in Maine this year goes to Melissa Walters and Bob Black. Check out their house lights above. That’s the date when the next American president will be sworn into office.

Given that there is no separation between church and state in England, I was not expecting much for Hanukkah. The stores were filled with only Christmas decorations and busy shoppers. Trees were adorned with lights and tasteful white stars hung above the high streets.

Sunday night we had just come from a lovely candle-lit carol service at Magdalen College Chapel when my daughter cried out, “Look a giant outdoor menorah!”

“Where?”

“Right there next to the Christmas Tree.”

At first I thought it had to be Advent candles, but sure enough it was a menorah on Broad Street. The biggest one I’ve ever seen. Add the gothic architecture and it was surreal. My daughter came back the next night to see how it was lit. At 5:00 pm a cherry picker truck hoisted up a rabbi to light the gas lamps. Brilliant!

Hanukkah is usually an understated affair, celebrated in the home by lighting candles for eight nights. Yesterday was the last night. It’s not the most important Jewish holiday but has risen in importance to balance the commercial appeal of Christmas for children.

Growing up in NYC with a Jewish father and an Episcopalian mother, my family celebrated both Christmas and Hanukkah as well as Easter, Passover, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I thought I was pretty lucky and have done the same for my family. Only my children, unlike me, went to Hebrew School for several years. It’s a relief when Hanukkah and Christmas don’t overlap. It makes the balancing act a little easier.

MOOSE CROSSING is about a mixed religion family that moves from NYC to Maine after 9/11. There’s even a scene with a moose menorah. First novels are often very personal. Common advice is to write about what you know. The characters and the plot are fictional, but I do like to draw from experience for setting and subject. S.A.D. also looks at multiple religions. Neither book is particularly religious, but belief and identity are important themes.

Right now I’m busy turning around S.A.D. for my next reader, Kim Slote, who will be reading over her holiday vacation. That’s a good friend! Kim does advocacy for Planned Parenthood in Florida as well as selling natural cosmetics. She’s a mother of two children and coincidentally from a mixed religion family too. I like to test my work on typical readers as well as get feedback from those in my profession.

As I work on plot, I highlight each plot string in a different color. That shows me how the sub plots are proportioned throughout the narrative and in relation to one another. Unweaving the plot helps me address specific criticisms and focus on inconsistencies, redundancies and verbosity. Each plot string needs to be able to stand alone and to weave seamlessly into the whole. It’s rewarding when it all comes together in the end. Still plenty of work to do!

I'm dreaming of a green Christmas....

Fine Dining in Oxford

Given the weak dollar to the strong pound, I’ve had few opportunities to eat out in Oxford. Some might assume that this was a fortunate omission, but British restaurants have improved over the two decades I’ve dined in England. These days London rivals NYC if not quite Paris. Oxford is nowhere near the gourmet standard, but there are some decent places for a treat. Lunches are more affordable.

If you only have one night in Oxford, I’d recommend The White Hart in the historic village of Wytham. It’s pronounced white-ham as in if you don’t know how to say it, you don’t belong there. With a population of 120, who cares? The stone and thatched cottages of Wytham are well worth the short drive from Oxford center.

The White Hart (beware there are several around Oxford) is a gastro-pub like you would usually only find in London with excellent food served in a casual pub atmosphere. It is pricey but worth it. Easy for me to say, as we went as guests of Henry’s advisor from Harvard, Susan Pharr, and her husband. Everything we had was delicious and as enjoyable as our company.


Another old pub that serves good food is The Trout in Wolvercote. An excellent weekend outing is walking 2 miles up the towpath along the Isis/Thames from Oxford to The Trout, and then walking back through Port Meadow, but bring your wellies.

For the less intrepid, you can take the number six bus back to Oxford center. The food is not as good as the White Hart, but the setting on the river is nicer. I’d recommend the wood oven pizza and a pint of Landlord over the more fancy fare. Not a bad place to have as our local pub.

Yesterday I met an American friend and a London transplant to sample the quintessential Oxford institution, Browns. Our party included a two-year-old, and this was the place for family dining. My friend tried the vegetarian special, I had a hot chicken salad and the Londoner always gets her favorite fish cakes. The two-year-old recommends the chocolate ice-cream but not the booster chair. I confess none of us were too focused on the food.

For lunch Browns was better than Brasserie Blanc. My husband and I should have known better. Raymond Blanc is considered one of the best chefs in England, and his Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons in Great Milton, Oxford has two-Michelin stars. Henry and I celebrated our tenth anniversary there. Our room at the inn overlooked beautiful gardens and couldn’t have been more romantic.

Sadly the inn’s accommodations were far better than the haute cuisine food, which was served with pseudo-French pretension. I still remember the two little blond girls in starched white dresses and ironed bows sitting with their stern parents at an adjacent table. I felt as uncomfortable as the children and about as welcome, but that was seven years ago.

The atmosphere at Brasserie Blanc was far more relaxed, and the service couldn’t have been better. The food wasn’t bad but still a disappointment. My Boeuf Bourguignon was greasy and tough, but Henry’s grilled salmon was okay. I filled up on fresh bread. The lemon and mango sorbets were fine. The atmosphere felt generic, but it was fun sitting in the big windows looking over Jericho Village. It didn’t feel like Thanksgiving.

The best meal we’ve had in Oxford center was at Chiang Mai Kitchen off High Street. The excellent Thai restaurant is almost impossible to find, hidden down a narrow alley that is so Oxford. The building felt as ancient with white washed walls, exposed beams and old windows.

The Thai figurines and orchids seemed an odd contrast but worked. I only wished there had been a fire in the fireplace. The food was as tasty as it was beautifully presented. We especially liked the dumplings (Khanom Jeep) and the chicken in spinach leaves (Mieng Gai.) Perfect for a family outing or even a nice date.

I think I’ll send my NOT CRICKET characters to the Trout for a pint. Does that mean I get to write off “the bill?” Don’t ask for “the check” in England. If you have leftovers it’s “to take away” not “to go.” It’s a “pint of lager”(light) or “bitter”(darker) not beer, and, yes, it will come at cask temperature, not chilled. Don’t expect ice cubes in anything. Ask for the loo or toilet, not the bathroom, and you are good to go. Cheers!

Happy Hanukkah! The chocolate gelt is in pounds, but given the exchange rate, not so bad.

P.S. If you know of other good Oxford restaurants/pubs, please comment. I'm hungry for the info.

The Wizard Earl

One step into the Museum of the History of Science and I had entered Philip Pullman’s fantasy world of His Dark Materials. The Oxford author had clearly found inspiration for Lyra’s magical alethiometer (the golden compass) in the museum’s collections of astrolabes and sundials. The 1590’s armillary sphere (pictured above) was owned by Henry Percy, the ninth Earl of Northumberland. He was known as the “Wizard Earl.” The globes had astrological signs on them.



Director Jim Bennett explained that this was not a museum of modern science but rather “the finest collection of early instruments in the world.” The Persian astrolabes (above) dated from the 15th to the 18th centuries. There were other artifacts from the 11th century and many from the Renaissance. The instruments were called “mathematical” as the science focused on measuring distance and time in relation to the stars and planets for surveying and navigation.

Originally known as the Ashmolean, it was the first building ever constructed for the purpose of being a museum. It was completed in 1685 to embrace the new science in the university. The method of teaching was experiment and demonstration, a departure from the traditional reading of lectures. Like an allegory, the basement originally housed the chemical laboratories, the ground floor was devoted to the study of natural history and the top floor was the museum.

The new science museum was truly public from its conception. The six pence admission meant that few commoners could afford to visit, but those who could pay, including women, were welcome. What a radical concept for the 17th century! Some of the elite boycotted the museum for this reason.

I was surprised to see so many sundials during the period that clocks and pocket watches were gaining popularity. Dr. Bennett explained that clocks, which measure average solar time, had to be set off sundials. Interestingly, the sundials were a far more accurate measurement of time. Some were small enough to carry in a pocket and made additional measurements such as Babylonian time. Bennett compared them to the silly extra features on digital watches. Technology may have changed, but human nature has not. It’s all about the cool gadgets.

These days the entire building is devoted to the museum. The basement now houses the more modern collection, including its most famous object: a blackboard used by Einstein to show his cosmological equations. There is also the first wireless machine used to broadcast soprano Nellie Melba in 1920. An historic event included in the book my husband is writing on public television. Demonstrations of the ancient instruments are given at the table. I’d love to bring our engineer-inclined son back for an astrolabe or sundial demonstration.

My tour was arranged by the Oxford Newcomers' Club, and it was a fine way to spend a cold, wet morning. The leaves are mostly down, but the grass is still bright green and will be all winter. I miss snow. Perhaps that explains why the novel I started reading yesterday was Vendela Vida’s Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name. Maybe I’m just pining after my own winter’s tale, S.A.D., which is with a reader now. S.A.D. is also about teaching science. Have you ever felt homesick for a novel?

Philip Pullman on Writing Myth & Religion

I thought it was a joke: Philip Pullman, young adult author and outspoken critic of organized religion, in a public discussion with, get this, the vicar in a church. So it’s okay to be organized in a church so long as the topic is writing.

I grabbed my teenaged son, who loved His Dark Materials trilogy even more then Harry Potter, and joined throngs of Oxford students at The University Church of St. Mary the Virgin on October 22nd. What a dramatic setting: stained glass, vaulted ceilings and gargoyles dating back to the 13th century. I half expected to find a daemon lurking in the pews. The fantasy series was set in his hometown of Oxford in this universe and in others.

Philip Pullman fitted the collegiate venue. He looked and sounded more like a tenured college professor than a bestselling author and iconoclast. He was warm and friendly with his host, Canon Brian Mountford.

Pullman referred to himself as a “Church of England Atheist.” He praised the Bible for its beautiful prose and noted religion’s value in building community. Pullman’s quarrel is not so much with religion but that “the church abandoned people in my position.” He cited religious wars, persecution and intolerance.

The Church of England was an important part of his personal history. He seemed to regard it more like an eccentric relative than the enemy. When Pullman was only seven, his father died. His grandfather, an ordained minister, partially raised him. Pullman praised his beloved grandfather for being a gifted storyteller. Later Pullman claimed that parents could do better by telling moral stories as opposed to religious ones.

In a Hollywood minute, the conversation jumped from religion to the upcoming film version of His Dark Materials. When Mountfield asked if the adaptation was true to the book, Pullman replied that the film is but one in a long series of different ways of telling the same story. Since writing the novels, there have been abridged audio books, a radio dramatization and 2 stage plays. Each has a different emphasis that reflects the genre.

His Dark Materials film will have special effects not possible on the page. It won’t be the same because the book takes eleven hours to read out loud, compared to a two-hour film. Pullman also wrote some special scenes just for the movie.

What impressed me most was Pullman’s eloquence and lack of conceit. He seemed to see the writer as a tool in the process: “stories only come into being when you read them; you can’t tell the meaning.”

Pullman has no problem with readers having different interpretations or leaving questions unanswered. When writing, the author is a tyrant and the process is despotic. Once the book becomes published, it becomes a democracy of the readers. “Reading is engaged in silence and secrecy, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Writing is still hard work. The Northern Lights (The Golden Compass in the USA) took Pullman seven years to write. It still isn’t faultless. “If you want to write a perfect piece of literature, write a haiku or a sonnet but don’t bother writing a novel.”

Nonetheless, Pullman appreciates the craftsmanship of forming sentences and the discipline of using words precisely. He frequently consults the dictionary and loathes clichés. His focus is as much on enjoying the medium of language as on telling the story. With experience writing gets both harder and easier. “It is easier because there are more ways to say the same thing, but it is harder to choose.”

What sets Pullman apart from most contemporary writers of children’s fiction are his literary references. His work draws heavily from the Judeo-Christian tradition and from John Milton’s Paradise Lost. His books resonate with the notion of fall and redemption. There is also a fair bit of science, including string theory, in creating his parallel universes and “dust.”

His Dark Materials leave readers of any age with questions. The biggest one is “what is dust?”

Pullman explained, “It is the visual analogue of all things known, all thoughts. What I call dust is what makes us what we are.” He avoided using the term soul but instead referred to the human “sense of consciousness.” The purpose of dust was “to develop a myth as a place to stand like in the Judeo-Christian tradition.”

I’m wondering how much of this will be clear to my ten-year-old daughter, who just started reading the series. To her, it is all about the daemons, those lovable animalistic beings that are the other half of humans. My daughter would calls them cute, little shape changers, but Pullman said they are the “aspect of oneself.”

Pullman claims that his best idea was having the daemons constantly changing form until their humans hit puberty. At heart, it is a young adult book dealing with this magical transformation from child to adult.

Biggest laughs came when Pullman answered the question of what would be his daemon. “My daemon would be a scruffy bird that steals from his neighbors.” He elaborated on how his imaginative fiction is rooted in research.

There is no doubt in my mind that his best character is the drunken, armored polar bear. Pullman created this creature and the dueling scene after reading an 1812 essay about fencing with a bear. His magic brings it to life.

The view from St. Mary's tower of Oxford

On the way out, we dropped a couple pounds in the church collection box. St. Mary’s also raises funds from visitors to the tower and by running a café called Vaults and Garden. The food is fresh and wholesome. Still, it’s hard to imagine any of this happening in an American church. That’s the fun of living abroad.

A blog is the ultimate democracy of the readers. What’s your take on Philip Pullman’s mythology?

Happy Hallowgiving

Goring-on-Thames

My daughter was miserable. Halloween in England didn’t cut it. The only ten-year-old in our neighborhood out trick-or-treating was babysitting the little ones. The young children came in store-bought costumes and said “Happy Halloween” instead of “trick-or-treat.” There were few jack-o-lanterns and certainly no children’s parade. It was small consolation that she could save her Goth chick costume for next year.

My mother-in-law came to the rescue. Nicola proposed we gather the four grandchildren to celebrate Halloween and Thanksgiving together. Ever since they came to visit us for Thanksgiving, my English in-laws have been celebrating the holiday. Everyone loves the idea of coming together for a meal to give thanks.

I agree. I am already missing not seeing my extended family in NYC. My cousin cooks for the 19 of us, and it is the only time we are all together other than weddings. Amazingly my mother-in-law recreated the American feast: it tasted just like home. Nicola even made my mother’s stuffing and cranberry sauce. She baked her first pumpkin pie and my favorite of apple pie.


My husband’s family has become my own over the years despite the cultural barriers. Nicola is a retired occupational therapist who enjoys painting lovely watercolors. Her husband has the same first name as my father so sometimes we refer to him as Captain Tony. He’s half Chilean and knew Nicola because his father sold a Devonian farm to her parents. Captain Tony has a memoir out now about the Tanganyika Mutiny from his time in the royal navy.

When Tony isn’t writing, he’s bell ringing at the medieval church. They live in a quaint village, Goring-on-Thames, surrounded by bucolic countryside. It’s like stepping into a Joanna Trollope novel visiting my in-laws.


Since I have a brother but no sisters, it’s a bonus having sisters-in-law. Charlotte Laurence works in international development, designing and managing HIV and AIDS prevention and care programs in low-income countries. She was just back from China and has worked in Africa too. She has a beautiful old flat in Bath. My daughter thinks her aunt dead cool. It’s not only her fascinating work; Charlotte has a great fashion sense and is wonderful with her niece and nephews.

Henry, Charlotte, Neil and Jess

Henry’s older sister, Jessica Bett, is a planner in the South Gloucestershire Council. She has a degree in industrial archeology and collects old green glassware. Jess has an easy laugh and a gentle nature. She and her husband, Neil, live in Bristol.

Neil Bett is Scottish and a talented actor with a great sense of humor. He and a partner set up Barking Productions LLP. Actors teach businessmen, bureaucrats and doctors better public relations skills through role-playing. Neil still acts occasionally and will be on Max Bear with Tom Baker. It won't air until Christmas 2008. Jess and Neil have two boys close to my children in age. They get on fabulously.

Henry invented the game of Pirate Bold. It’s sort of like freeze tag but with a hidden treasure. The game starts with, “Ar, Jim lad!” The children run off base looking for the treasure chest while the grown ups tag them by hand or throwing a soft ball (ie. “firing a broadside.”) The best part is eating the chocolate treasure. For the Halloween version, they all dressed up in costumes except for my teenaged son. Granny provided plenty of extra treats and “pudding” as dessert is called in England.

It also happened to be November 11th so they went to a village service at 11:00 AM with girl and boy scouts and war veterans. Remembrance Day is like our Veteran’s Day only so many more Brits died in WWI. Everyone wears paper red poppies and dresses up somberly for the occasion. It was also my brother’s birthday so I called him in NYC and recounted our wonderful weekend. It felt like going home.

Lord & Lady Krebs at Jesus College

The best fun of writing is playing location scout. It gets me out of my office and takes me to settings I could not have imagined. Last week I visited Jesus College. Our guide was the Principal himself, Lord Krebs.


Oxford colleges remind me of gemstones. On the outside most look the same in weathered sandstone, but inside are glittering jewels, each one unique and full of history. Many are closed to the public. These ancient rocks are hard to crack.

The Oxford Newcomer’s Club is designed for the other halves. Our husbands/wives/partners are working or studying at the University. The club takes pleasure in arranging special insider tours only for us. The organizers are mostly academic spouses themselves and can relate to our displacement and isolation.

The inner courtyards are quiet and laid with perfect grass, but don’t step on it! It feels like a castle or a monastery. That makes sense since many Oxford colleges were started as religious instituitions. Jesus College was founded by royal charter in 1571, making it one of the middle-aged colleges. The earliest ones date from the thirteenth century.


Each college is like an archeological dig with visible layers of history. Behind me in the first quad photo you can see the original sandstone of the dining hall, pitted with time. To my right is the oldest part of the college, but the third floor and those battlements were later additions. To my left is the principal’s residence.

Queen Elizabeth I founded Jesus College for the purpose of converting the Welsh to Protestantism by training clergymen for the recently established Anglican Church. The queen herself came from a Welsh family, the Tudors. The benefactor, Hugh Price, endowed it with the income from his Welsh estates. It was his idea to start the college. His income was not sufficient, but later graduates have contributed generously to make Jesus one of the wealthier colleges. Traditionally the students were predominantly Welsh, although reform has made the student body more diverse. It is still called the Welsh college.

Lady Krebs is Welsh, but her husband is not. They are both biologists. She used to teach at a girls’ technical college, and he has been a professor of ecology. He is now devoted to running Jesus College. His father, the former Lord Krebs, was also an Oxford college principal. Despite their lofty titles, I found the Krebs to be very warm and engaging. They were more Katharine and John than his lady and lordship.

Upon hearing that I was American, John smiled and told me the story of his summer in the States. He had taken a research job at Woods Hole on Cape Cod. At lunchtimes he snuck off to sail. Later he drove with his friends cross-country in a red Mustang.

We laughed over the words that mean one thing in English and another in American. A torch is a flashlight, and a rubber is not something you pull over your shoes to keep them dry. The amusing misunderstandings between the two cultures, despite a common language, will be a theme in my third novel. John and Katharine suggested some reading material for my research. They are eager to read NOT CRICKET one day.


Seeing inside the college was an inspiration. The double courtyard windows flooded the dining hall in sunlight. On the walls hung austere portraits of the founders and famous graduates such as Lawrence of Arabia, Harold Wilson and John Nash.


We also visited the old bursary where special guests go for dessert, port and even snuff under the eyes of Queen Elizabeth. There were many portraits of their royal founder in the college. King Charles I’s gold watch resides inside a glass display case. The silver postdates the republic years. During the Civil War, all the colleges had to donate their silver to flatten into coins to pay the soldiers. It amazes me that the Brits went back to a monarchy, but perhaps this is easier to understand if all the nobility were as charming and gracious as the Krebs.

Our college tour ended at the principal’s residence. Katharine served us coffee and cakes, and then John showed us around upstairs. I don’t think I have ever been inside a lovelier dwelling although it was very formal. Delft tiles lined the fireplaces. The large window overlooking the quad and private gardens made the space light and airy, especially on this rare sunny day.



On the walls hung portraits of former principals and impressionist paintings borrowed from the Ashmolean Museum. The oddest portrait was of a vegetable seller with a monkey on her shoulder. The monkey was a trick to lure customers into buying more produce. It was very unusual to have an oil painting of a commoner during the Renaissance.

After coffee, I wandered around Oxford soaking up the setting and taking photos of the turning leaves and golden buildings. Despite being November, it was so warm I had lunch outside. My mind raced with ideas for NOT CRICKET. Should I use a real college or make one up? Lovers kissing became characters, and I walked their paths with a light step. On days like this I feel I have the best job in the world.


On the weekend my husband and I saw Elizabeth: the Golden Age. The cinematography was stunning and the acting was almost good enough to make you ignore the weak script. “There is a wind coming which will sweep away your pride,” says the Spanish Ambassador. Honestly! Forget the Virgin Queen, she was the Cliché Queen. The King of Spain and his mini-me daughter were Monty Pythonesque. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition or the Addams Family. Still, the talented Cate Blanchett was worth seeing. Even if this sequel was disappointing after the perfection of the first, Elizabeth I was a fascinating character. How amazing to leave the theater and pass the college she had founded.

Savoring Paris

One of the best things about living in England is having the rest of Europe at your doorstep. A long weekend in Paris is easier than popping down to NYC from Maine. The high-speed Eurostar train travels between London and Paris in only 2 1/2 hours. Security and passport control are so fast they recommend arriving only a half an hour ahead of time. After zipping through the Chunnel (the Channel Tunnel,) you just step off the train and are free to go.

We took the commuter rail to our friends’ house in the western suburbs of Paris. Craig Bradley, the former Dean of Students at Bowdoin College, is now working for the Aga Khan. Craig is helping to set up a series of secondary schools in developing countries.


It is Craig’s dream job, especially given his love of France, but we were sad to see his family leave Brunswick, Maine last year. Elizabeth Webb and their daughters were in my playgroup, and even our dogs were close friends. I can’t go to Popham Beach without thinking of our sunset picnics and ocean canoeing adventures, but happily they come back to Maine for the summers.

Their daughters are attending an international school designed for expats and repats. It is public school with a mini private program for different nationalities to maintain the second language. After the transitional year, the girls now take all other classes in French and are getting close to fluent. If they stay long enough, they can get French citizenship and will graduate with an International Baccalaureate.



The price is that the French approach to education is as regimented and conformist as the landscaping. My daughter's friend said she felt like one of those French trees. Individuality among school children or plants is discouraged. Trees are planted symmetrically and cut into even boxes in parks and along streets. Even the forest trails are numbered and drawn in straight lines with little regard to the topography.


Saint Germain-en-Laye, the birthplace of Louis XIV, is a charming town with little shops and an open-air market 4 days a week. Every transaction is conducted in French, which was great practice. That’s Elizabeth in the fromagerie talking cheese. This was something like my seventh visit to France, and I love their appreciation of fine food. On Sundays after noon you are forbidden to mow the lawn in case that might disturb dining.


For lunch we went to Larcher, a delicious creperie that the children adored. Then our family went to Paris on our own. There was an interesting cubism exhibit at the Musée Picasso and a fabulous Giacometti exhibit at the Centre Pompidou. The view of Paris from the outside escalators is worth the price of admission alone. Sadly, it was overcast for most of our visit, but at least it wasn’t raining. Plus at this time of year, there were few crowds.


My son is studying the French revolution and was writing a paper on Marie Antoinette’s abortive escape from execution. We drove 20 minutes to Versailles and history came alive. At this time of year the fountains are off and the statues covered but admission to the gardens is free. We headed to Le Petit Trianon, a “little” palace Marie Antoinette inhabited to avoid the grandeur of the Versailles court. The gardens there were in the English landscaping style, planned just as carefully to appear natural.

We didn't go hungry. In the mornings the girls picked up fresh baked croissants and pain au chocolat from the local boulangerie. On Saturday night we had a delicious meal at Au Pere Lapin. It was French but without the cream and butter and with an Asian influence. From the street we had a great view of the Eiffel Tower all lit up for night. Dinner is served late, at 8:00 pm or later, and lasts for hours. Rush hour in France is 6:00-7:00 pm, and many Parisians take a long lunch break.

On our last day, my son wanted to see the Conciergerie where Marie Antoinette and her family were held before execution. Prisoners were often tortured before going to the guillotine. After that they would go to Napoleon’s Tomb and War Museum. Elizabeth and I decided the ten-year-old girls would prefer to see Monet’s lily paintings at the newly re-opened L’Orangerie.

My husband proposed splitting into two groups: the death party (ou la partie de la mort?) and the lily party. The guys headed off with ghoulish eagerness. Elizabeth’s oldest daughter joined them as even death was better company than listening to little girls sing fake commercials. Talk about torture! It was my daughter’s second visit to Paris, but she was more interested in her long-lost twin. Hard to blame her.

A test of Monet’s skill was that the girls stopped singing long enough to admire the art. As much as these paintings are almost a cliché, it is an incredible experience to stand in the airy oval rooms surrounded on 4 sides by enormous lily canvases. You feel part of the landscape, like standing at a mountain’s summit.


My favorite part of being in Paris is just wandering the streets, the gardens and along the Seine. We walked half the length of the city to a free outdoor sculpture garden on the riverbank near Le Jardin des Plantes. In France you are allowed to touch the sculpture, as one should.

It was hard to say goodbye to our friends but easier to leave Paris in a downpour. We emerged on the other side of the Chunnel in shock: the sun was shining and the skies bright blue. It felt weird to be speaking English again. The time in Paris with old friends brings to mind one of Fredrick’s Fables where a poetic mouse stores memories of summer to get through the long winter. I shall savor the taste of Paris.

The market pumpkins reminded me that it is Halloweeen. We got some candy but will we get trick-or-treaters tonight? Back in Maine there will be a children's parade down Maine Street. It's not a day you can forget. I suspect Thanksgiving will feel odd too.


My kids as Pippy Longstocking and the BFG in our backyard in Maine

P.S. For those of you who are wondering how I could be in 2 places at once, the Times Record editor decided to sign my political endorsement letters Brunswick rather than Oxford. On Friday 11/2 is my letter for Bob Morrison for school board at-large and on 10/11 was my letter for Dugan Slovenski for district 2. Henry and I voted absentee.

The French have amazing turn-outs. Elizabeth asked a neighbor why, and she replied, "we fought so hard for the right to vote." So did we. Don't forget to vote Tuesday!

Shaping a Novel (S.A.D.)

It helps to have two book projects going on simultaneously especially while living abroad. I researched NOT CRICKET while I waited for S.A.D. to come back from my second reader. It was a long wait. There have been a series of wildcat postal strikes in Britain, the worst in 20 years. It made me sad.

The title of my second novel, S.A.D., stands for both School Administrative District and Seasonal Affective Disorder. I have always loved puns. The story came to me when I was caught up in a political campaign for building a new school in Brunswick, Maine. Why not plunder my hard-won knowledge of small town politics for fiction?

There is so much beyond a political activist’s influence in the real world, what a relief to be in control of a novel. Although sometimes I don’t feel like I’m really in control. I create the characters, put them in a setting and watch to see what happens. It’s more like directing than playing God.

An appropriate analogy since S.A.D. puts evangelicals on a school board who want to add Intelligent Design to the science curriculum. A lobsterman and a liberal professor fight back, and my protagonist is caught in the middle of the drama. The superintendent pays the deadly cost.

Like any production, there is a large cast of characters working behind the scenes. Education lawyer George Isaacson corrected my interpretation of the law and found my scenario scarily plausible. I also spoke to teachers, administrators and a former superintendent. A couple of professors, a priest, a fire chief, a lobsterman, a pilot, a detective , and a marine patrolman helped with other plot points. The evangelical ministers didn’t return my calls so I just went to services. Plenty of book/internet research too.

After my husband, the first reader for S.A.D. was Kathy Thorson. Like my protagonist, Kathy is new to the school board and has red hair. The similarities stop there as I created Haley Swan before Kathy even thought of running. Sorry to ruin the fun, but my characters are all fictional. Most of the work is imagination. My novels may be based on research but are spiced up with plenty of romance and drama.

My second reader was author Charlotte Agell (check out her new website.) She encouraged me to enliven the narrative by playing out some of the drama in the classroom and through my teen characters. That has been fun! It broadens the appeal to a Jodi Picoult family drama audience. Charlotte, Kathy and George all live on my street back home. How’s that for a small town?

My third reader will be Abigail Holland in NYC, a former Harper’s editor now home with her kids. She was also the first reader of MOOSE CROSSING and encouraged me to publish it. After she comments, I’ll figure out if S.A.D. is ready to go to my last reader for a proof read.

Then S.A.D. will go to my agent, Jean Naggar, in NYC for her feedback. Other agents at her medium-size firm might advise. Any major changes would be tested on yet another reader. Once the manuscript is ready, my agent draws up a list of editors who have shown interest (think of a dance card at a ball.) An agent works on commission after the sale of the book to a publisher. Readers just get a line on the acknowledgement page and my eternal gratitude. I also read for other writer/readers.

At the publishing houses a manuscript may get several reads with marketing and publicity involved. A committee makes the decision to publish, and more work gets rejected than accepted. An accepted manuscript will be worked on by editors, copy editors, type setters, book jacket designers, marketers and publicists. Even after the editorial revisions are complete, it will be another nine months or so until you see it at the bookstore.

My agent’s assistant, Marika Josephson, made an insightful comment:

I always thought the Bible was so fascinating because so many hands went into the production of it. And you could see it all in each line if your ears were tuned to it. I never realized that a book you pick up off the shelves even these days is exactly the same. The whole entire package has been touched and sculpted by dozens and dozens of hands. I certainly can't look at books the same way again after having worked in publishing!



P.S. I received a comment from Rachel, who just moved to Maine. Talk about characters coming to life – that is the protagonist from MOOSE CROSSING. Welcome to Maine, Rachel!

Horses in the Mist

In the mornings, the mist is often thick over Port Meadow. The herds of horses and cattle come into soft focus as I walk the dog. The sun is low on the horizon, making the most ordinary objects glow. Only in Oxford can swans flying over a river be called ordinary.

The misty landscape is a reflection of my mind as I try to find NOT CRICKET. First there are the characters, shifting in and out of focus and teasing me at the periphery of my vision. Sometimes I think I see them clearly, but other times they fade away.

In my latest version of S.A.D., I decided my protagonist needed a personality makeover and changed her name from Agnes Wolfe to Haley Swan. Time in England is affecting even my American book although Swan is a Maine name. I try to be true to my settings.

The plot is pure fiction. It keeps changing like a folktale passed down through generations. The essential message stays the same, but the story shifts in details and in structure almost organically.

The plot is key to commercial fiction as it drives the narrative. It’s tricky to create a story that keeps the reader turning pages but also resonates on a deeper level. I like to keep the narrative open for as long as possible so as to explore the many paths. A story that doesn’t surprise me won’t surprise you.

As important as thinking is reading. Some books I read for research and others for writing inspiration. I have just finished a most lovely novel, Per Petterson’s Out Stealing Horses, translated from the Norwegian by Ann Borne. It is not long, and the prose is simple, but it says so much with so little. It breaths between the words.

A coming-of-age story, Out Stealing Horses explores the relationship between a fourteen-year-old son and his enigmatic father. The beautiful, raw setting roots the characters and frames the narrative. It is a small community in the northeastern woods of Norway. The narrator is an older man, looking back on a disturbing and formative summer shortly after WWII. When I finished, it was like saying goodbye to a close friend. I miss his voice.

Another story that relies heavily on setting is Ann Patchett’s new release, Run. It takes place close to home in Boston and Cambridge where I attended university. Patchett is one of my favorite authors, and her last novel, Bel Canto, was too good to match. In her latest novel she looks closely at a family and the effects of race and class. Her characters are so real you feel you know them. Run was helpful for me to read because it is set in winter like my first two novels.


Popham Beach, Maine in December

So many authors set their Maine stories in the summer, possibly because they only vacation there. For year-round residents, Maine is defined by its long winter and unpredictable storms. It is what makes living up north unique and special. Don’t get me wrong, nothing beats a Maine summer, but you feel like you’ve earned it after surviving the winter and appreciate it the more.

As it rains and the leaves turn brown instead of flaming red and gold, Maine feels far away. Still, I have to admit that I may be quite happy to see daffodils in February for a change. When I leave Oxford, I will dream about horses in the mist.

Public School Dayboy

My son’s school dates back to 1100 and enrolls 800 boys aged 11 to 18. Less than a quarter of the children board, and those are mostly from Asia, so they are set up for foreign students. There are few, if any, Americans. My English husband was thrilled to see the front lawn was a cricket pitch. The campus quads are arranged around extensive athletic grounds, but the emphasis is firmly on academics. The setting is a market town even older than the school.


A traditional English public (meaning private in American) school, it is known for being academically rigorous. It is a feeder school to Oxford and Cambridge Universities, the ivy-league of England. Unlike the ivies, these top universities are heavily subsidized by the state despite the fact that only half of the students come from state (meaning public in American) schools. University entrances are based on examination results and only a few schools claim most of the Oxbridge places, a system that reinforces privilege and class. A recent report revealed that only 100 schools account for a third of Oxbridge undergraduates, most were private.

To apply to his new school, my son sat two days worth of exams that were like LSAT’s crossed with Math SAT’s and an English AP. He had to analyze a poem about a nostalgic father watching his son play cricket that confounded him, but my son must have aced the essay on emerging technology. We depend on him to program our i-pods. The exam had to be “invigilated” by the headmistress of his school.

Back in Maine, we moved our son to private school when his elementary school abandoned ability grouping and had not yet started up a Gifted and Talented program. During his final year, I came in and taught an advanced math group, but I’m no mathematician and his supplemental education left little time to work myself. His small private school in Maine emphasizes academics and the arts with a laid back, welcoming atmosphere.

Before starting school in England, my son had to shed his t-shirts and cargo pants. He couldn’t have called them pants in England anyway – that’s the word for underpants, also called knickers for a girl. We found the campus uniform shop next door to the tuck (snack) shop. My son was outfitted in navy blazer, grey trousers, black lace-up shoes, blue shirt and striped tie, also rugby kit.

Each house has a distinct tie, and his is maroon and grey, reminding me of Gryffindor in Harry Potter. The house system creates community and allows students to compete for more than themselves. Individuality is not encouraged, and the uniform reinforces this message. We wanted our half English son to get a true British experience like his father had at Pangbourne before it went co-ed.

I was worried how the other kids would receive a lone American given how unpopular the war in Iraq is here. No worries. Our 13-year-old son was an instant hit after reassuring the older boys that American cheerleaders do indeed fall for the British accent. In case you’re wondering, I was never a cheerleader.

The school day is 8:30-5:00 Mondays-Fridays and 8:30-1:00 on Saturdays, but the weekdays include an hour of afternoon sports or activities. They all do community service, and my son chose cross-country and chess. He is less than impressed with the long day but is enjoying his new classes like physics and chemistry enormously. The campus is on the opposite side of Oxford from us so he takes the school coach.

If only there was a bus to his sister’s state school, but we are getting very fit biking. We decided to withdraw my daughter’s petition to move to a closer elementary school since she is happy, learning well and has good friends. It is a very small school with only one class per year. Yet another transition would be stressful, and there is nothing wrong with the school itself, just the system that reinforces inequities and results in difficult commutes.

We couldn’t have picked two more different school experiences for my children in England. Between them, we are witnessing the full gamut of British education.

A Wall of Inequity

There once was a wall near my daughter’s school in Oxford. It cut off the council housing (low-income housing project) from its more affluent neighbors. Erected in 1934 by a private developer, two walls transected even the road. Following public protest, the walls were demolished in 1959, twenty-five years later. The inequities persist today.

My daughter was placed in the one school that still had openings. As we bike or walk the mile and a half to her school, we pass kids her age from this district going in the opposite direction like rats fleeing a sinking ship. There are no school buses. No city buses travel our route. We have submitted a petition requesting a transfer to our small village school, a short walk away. We have been waiting weeks for a hearing.

An Oxford academic explained that to revitalize the state schools with dwindling enrollments, all schools were open to anyone given space. Preference is given to geographic catchments. Joining late is a disadvantage.

There was no space at all in the large “high school” for her brother. The other option was a long drive away, and we heard of bullying problems there. My children are British citizens so they were not treated differently for being one-year visitors. We were able to send our son to public (ie private) school, but other families don’t have that option.

I find the lack of equity shocking in a system of national education. My daughter’s primary school includes most of the council housing population. There is widespread swearing among the students, and teachers routinely shout for order. Many children are in foster care and have difficult home situations. A large number of students are special needs.

The average mother/caretaker at school pick up time is smoking and/or wearing high heels and tight clothing with unevenly dyed hair. I consider myself a young mother, but most of the parents look ten years younger than me and have larger families. Quite a few fathers in work-clothes pick up too, even more than in Brunswick, Maine. The parents at our local school appear to be of a totally different class, age and educational level.

I’ve always considered the economically diverse student body in Maine public schools a benefit. Accepting this high degree of segregation in Oxford is not right. It makes the inequities that parents are rightly protesting in Brunswick pale by comparison. Why don’t parents complain here?

Despite the inequities, there are advantages to my daughter’s school that address our situation. Many foreign students live in the catchment area, and it is the school of choice for the few Japanese families. It has students from over 20 nations and is ethnically diverse. The school had a welcoming reception for foreign parents and does much to promote cultural sharing. They even studied the Jewish high holidays, although my daughter was the only Jew in the class.

Due to a strong national curriculum, all children in state school learn the same material. The school’s test results are the same as our neighborhood’s ones and average for the county. This is quite impressive given the high number of ESL students.

It helps that my daughter is not the only foreign student; there is even another American in her class. There’s a child from Georgia (the country, not the state) as well as several other countries. The girls have been very welcoming to her, and she already has had play dates with two friends whose parents are schoolteachers. All the primary schools are small with only one class per year although the class is large with 30 kids.

Math has been a challenge for my daughter mainly because the notation, term names and the system of learning are different. She was marked down for using commas and not setting her long division work into grids. I had to teach her long multiplication, long division and fraction simplification.

Math is taught sequentially in the US starting with addition then subtraction and not progressing until the basics are mastered. Understanding the concept and showing your work is as important as getting the right answer. This used to plague my son in elementary school who does math in his head and has sloppy writing. The Brits are even more upset by poor penmanship. Even math work is done in special handwriting pens.

My daughter has always done well in math and found it discouraging to have a teacher chastising her for not knowing facts that she “should have learned years ago.” The English system introduces all concepts at an early age through memorization so kindergarteners start work on multiplication but won’t understand that it is built from addition. They learn everything at once at an early age.

It appears that Americans do catch up. My son’s “maths” class is repeating material he learned last year in the advanced math class, but the pace here is twice as fast so he will be learning new stuff by mid-year.

Despite all the challenges of adjustment, my children have settled into school and are enjoying the curriculum and their new friends, if missing old friends from home. My daughter is thrilled to have a teacher who encourages creative writing, and the two girls we had over were delightful. All the children at her school have been polite and helpful when they see me. We know little of our son’s new world.

The biggest drawback of not having children in our local schools is not becoming part of the community. It makes me appreciate the wonderful experience of having my children attend a small elementary school near our house in Maine. I too made many friends and became involved in educational advocacy through that stimulation.

Small neighborhood schools can build community and encourage parental participation, but the ideal is often lost in the reality through poor management. Public/state schools should be all about equity and good education. Americans are not alone in struggling with these issues.

Photograph from Oxfordshire County Council Archive.

Quince Tree

The owl and the pussycat “dined on mince and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon.” It was my favorite nursery rhyme. Before discovering a quince tree in our backyard, I couldn’t picture the fruit any more than I could define runcible. It turns out Edward Lear made up the word “runcible,” but the fruit defies imagination it is so weird.

My English mother-in-law described the quince as a cross between an apple and a pear. It certainly looks like a fuzzy pear, but it tastes like unsweetened cranberries or rhubarb. But don’t the Brit’s love rhubarb too? Mind you, add enough sugar and cream, and you can eat anything, even quince.

Henry assayed a quince stuffing in roast chicken, hence the unsweetened cranberries simile, and had more success making quince jelly. He then used a spot of quince jelly to prepare a savory gravy for quails. Now that was tasty, only my daughter found the tiny birds too life-like to eat. Qunice, she proclaimed, is either bitter or sour. My dog likes rolling in them. I’m trying to train Stella to collect the fallen fruit before the wasps find them.


My daughter’s watercolor of the quince tree and laundry.

A search on wikipedia showed that the Portuguese word for quince is marmelo and that the word marmalade originally meant quince jam. Apparently quinces need a more southern climate than England to ripen.

My claim is there is only one season in England: wet and 40 to upper 60’s. It doesn’t rain all day, but it sprinkles like a greenhouse mister. If it does get cold enough for snow, the whole country grinds to a halt. The sun shines in the 80’s, and it’s a heat wave /drought. Having lived about two years in England over the past couple of decades, I have never seen before the three pleasantly warm and sunny weeks we have just enjoyed. Needless to say, as soon as I blogged about that last week, it started raining.

After Monday morning’s monsoon, we bought a dryer. It was more green to have a clothesline, as in the moldy green color of our underwear. My son had to wear dirty sports kit to cross-country practice. Even on a dry day, our clothes were taking two days to stiffen into cardboard. “I hate crusty socks,” my daughter sighed. Hard water doesn’t help.

One trick to doing laundry in England is the airing cupboard. These are wooden slats built above the water heater to dry line-damp clothing. Unfortunately our house has the nation’s smallest airing cupboard. My dog keeps wagging over our supplemental drying rack and picking socks like berries.

On the weekend we went on a blackberry-picking hike. Three and a half pounds later we are now planning on a quince and blackberry crumble. The berries at least are unbelievably sweet, unlike their American counterparts.

We passed sheep and cows, then circled back along the Thames.

Stella appreciated the dog doors at the fences.

We also drove twenty minutes to Woodstock to visit Blenheim Palace where Winston Churchill was born. Churchill gave up his noble title so that he could become prime minister. During World War II, Hitler did not bomb Blenheim because he planned to rule his empire from that seat.


The palace facade was very grand, but the small rooms inside were dark and dreary despite all the gold leaf. The library was a treat with big windows and more leather bound volumes than I’ve ever seen in one place. The vast estate covers 2,700 acres, and the Capability Brown gardens were pleasant. We only got sprinkled on once.


After Maine, I find it a bit freaky how the countryside is completely cultivated. There are no wild woods only hedgerows. On the plus side, there is little suburban sprawl and farming is doing well. I especially appreciate the rights of way allowing the public to traverse private estates and farms. Dogs are welcome almost everywhere, even on the bus and in pubs. They are tolerated more than children.

A typical mistake Americans make is assuming that England will be similar due to the common language. Culturally there is a sizable gap that is a reflection of the landscape. English society is well cultivated and seeped in tradition and culture, but it lacks the wild exuberance of the USA. I don’t think one is necessarily better than the other, but it’s quite different. Leaving one’s home is the best way to get perspective and appreciate what you have and acknowledge what you are missing.

I never feel more American than when I’m living abroad, but until I open my mouth, no one knows. People are always asking me for directions, no matter where I am. I think that’s the New Yorker in me: always walking someplace briskly and acting like I know where I’m going.

I find my way as I go along. The trick is being observant and exploring detours. It’s quite like writing a novel. The journey is all part of the adventure.

Black Tie at Oriel College, Oxford University

I realized my mistake only when I tried to sit. A long gown seemed appropriate for a black tie dinner at my husband’s alma mater. There was the added benefit of hiding my old shoes. When Henry was at Oriel, it was all male. No student would have had to hike her dress up to her knees to straddle the bench, although he would have worn an academic gown.

The men on the wall side actually climb onto the bench and then the narrow table to reach the other side. Grown men in tuxedos were stepping through china, linen napkins and wine glasses. The elders sat on chairs at the high table. I must have been one of the youngest at the Oriel Society dinner.

Framed in gold, Oriel forbears, such as Sir Isaac Newton, watched the scene with imperious detachment. The dark oak-paneled room had a high vaulted ceiling and was far longer than it was wide. Cavernous! Add brooms and it would be Hogwarts.


The dining hall at Christ Church (above), the grandest college at Oxford, was actually featured in the Harry Potter movies. This wealthy and aristocratic college was also the setting for Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Oriel is more intimate, but the feeling is similar. Founded in 1326 Oriel has 300 undergraduates. Christ Church dates from 1524 and has 450 undergraduates. Oxford University is really a congregation of many small colleges with separate admissions and faculty. The colleges compete in sports and have individual identities.


Henry was in his element sporting his boating club blazer for coxing the second eight. Oriel is known for being the rowing college at Oxford. In Henry’s day there were fifteen 8-man boats, steered by a cox. At the Oxford bumps races a team moves up the rank by actually bumping into the next boat. The winning team tosses the cox into the river. Then the Head of the River has a big drinking party around a bonfire of an old boat followed by a bumps supper in the hall.

It appeared Oriel was also the drinking college. With every course came a different drink: champagne before dinner, white wine with the fish, red with the lamb and a dessert wine with the chocolate pudding. This was followed by two types of port, always passed to the left. The first port came in a silver flagon!


To my right was Tenzin Wilberforce, a Tibetan from India married to another Oriel alum, and to my left was Henry’s chum, Vince Warner. He was wearing a most unusual waistcoat, as were several distinguished gentlemen. I asked one man with silver hair, “What’s with the turtles on your waistcoat and bow tie?”

“Turtles? Turtles! My dear, those are tortoises.” Only the first eights crews are allowed to join the Tortoise Club.

Makes no sense to me. Turtles like water, and tortoises are slow land animals. It isn’t about making sense. The Leander Club of rowers wear pink hippos on their ties and have the exclusive right to enter the steward’s enclosure for the Henley Regatta.

The English are all about signaling who belongs in the inner enclosure. Like peacocks, they strut their plumage, marking their territory. Imagine the shock of an American woman flying into the flock, snapping pictures for her blog.


The gentleman in the butterfly-embroidered waistcoat asked if I was from Vogue! He belonged to no secret club. His talented wife, Marion Clegg, designed and embroidered his garment. The inspiration came from the Beatrix Potter story, The Tailor of Gloucester.

I am indeed living a fairytale. It hasn’t rained in the three weeks since we arrived, and I’m finally connected to the internet.

Wolvercote

At the end of our road are cows, horses and a bus stop. Wolvercote is a couple of miles up the Thames (or Isis as it is called only in Oxford) from the university. Port Meadow stretches as far as the eye can see along the river. Dogs run off-lead and swim with the swans. Stella tried to catch one, but it hissed at her. Its takeoff sounded like galloping horses taking down a sail. Stella has not tried again.

So how did I get my dog to England and avoid the rabies quarantine? Ridiculous amounts of money and more than six months of paperwork. Stella had to fly British Air cargo while we had frequent flier miles for American Airlines. The British authorities insisted on a Saint Bernard size crate that fit not only the dog but also three kids. It would have been cheaper to buy Stella two seats on the plane! Or a new Golden Retriever in England?

Our friends the Bradley-Webbs, who moved to France from Maine, said taking the dog was the best thing they did to feel like home, especially for the children. They were right. Finding Stella sprawled belly up, chewing on someone’s sock, is home. She took the journey in stride and has already become pals with my in-laws’ King Charles spaniel.

Henry’s parents live in Goring up the Thames from us, less than an hour drive away. They’ve been a tremendous help dog and kid sitting while we got settled. Like magicians, they pulled out of their small basement extra china, glasses, rugs and desks for the kids. I’m not sure if it’s jetlag or the move, but I’ve never been more exhausted. It’s been worth it.


Wolvercote is such an idyllic setting with Beatrix Potter cottages around a village green. There are even hedgehogs living on our dead-end road: imagine a prickly hamster only cuter. Other than the rumble of the not so distant motorway, it’s surprisingly rural. The buses run every 15 minutes. Henry's office at the Nissan Institute of Japanese Studies at Oxford University is on the route, only 10 minutes away.

All the houses on our road are attached and hobbit sized. It’s a friendly neighborhood like Brunswick, Maine only more international. I’ve already met many on our road, including three partially American couples, one who met in Japan. Most of the children are very young, but one is my daughter’s age. They became buddies on the first day.


Wolvercote has a post office/convenience store, one Chinese take-away and four(!) pubs. Henry claims the Trout is the best pub in Oxford County. I highly recommend the beetroot and goat cheese salad with a half pint of Landlord to chase jetlag. This is what happens when an Englishman picks a residence: country walks and a good pint.


Henry did well as our new home has a gourmet kitchen complete with an American-size fridge and an open-plan family/dining room overlooking the garden. My elbows hit the shower stall walls when I lather up, but the pressure is good even by American standards. It also has a deep English bathtub and architect designer touches, feeling like a luxurious vacation home. The only drawback is no drier in a country with more rain than sun.


I found a Staples and transformed the fourth bedroom into a cozy office. I bought a thesaurus and a baby name book in a discount bookshop. If only getting BT to connect us to the internet were as easy. I'm blogging from Henry's office while he's at a conference.


I’ve needed some time off work to hit the superstores and fill the gaps. Can we live without a microwave? Where can we find nesting Tupperware? I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Wal-Mart, especially given the worst ever exchange rate of the dollar to the pound. Lamaze breathing helps for sticker shock.

It cost $100 to fill the tank of the used Subaru we bought sight unseen. It’s a drug dealer’s car all black with tinted windows, leather seats and a vicious alarm. Or maybe designed for a funeral? Hopefully not mine. It takes some getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road. It was like the windscreen was a mirror. Worse still, every turn has hedges blocking the view of traffic, and the roads are often not wide enough for two cars, especially over bridges. Some bridges have traffic lights, but usually you have to back up and pray you don’t hit the elderly lady with a straw hats on a bike behind you. My trial run was during the next village’s fair, but somehow we survived it without crashing into a thatched cottage.

Despite the challenges, I’m thrilled to be here. I’m already back to work revising S.A.D. and gathering material for NOT CRICKET. It’s such an adventure to try a new life for a year, especially in a storybook setting. If only BT would deliver our modem, the fairytale would have a happy ending.

The Holy Internet Grail

My daughter spotted the sign in Oxford Center: internet in the basement only 75p. Looking both ways, we crossed the high street. Not so much to see if anyone shady was watching us, but to make sure we weren't flattened by the bus on the wrong side of the road.

In the shabby convience store we paid the cashier before desending narrow steps. Flourescents buzzed, paint peeled, carpet stank of mildew, and the computers were as ancient as the chairs. You get what you pay for, but I'm not complaining.

At Starbucks the WiFi hotspot must have been refering to the burn in your wallet. At £5 (or $10) just for the privildege to connect with your laptop, I thought the barista was joking. Free WiFi does not appear to exist in England.

I'm only here because BT won't connect us for WiFi at home until Friday after hours and hours over days of waiting on hold for the appointment. Send me anyplace in the world but keep me connected. I start most of my research on line to find people to interview or books to order. I'm a huge fan of Wikipedia. The internet is my umbilical cord to my friends, family and agent. At least the isolation is only temporary and snail mail and phone are working just fine.

I can't blog about our lovely village or share my photographs in this den of cyber-antiquity. I will post a more cheerful blog soon, I hope. We are doing well and settling in with the kids starting school tomorrow. Transitions are difficult, but the hardships provide the best writing material. For now, I sign off. It's midmorning back home in Maine, but tea time here.

Uprooting to England

I type to the whine of chainsaws. Most of our hundred year old white pines, towering high above our home, have died of a mysterious infection. Feeling the thud of falling trees brings home my own uprooting. Or is it transplanting?

We are moving to England for the year. My husband, Henry, is taking a research sabbatical at Oxford University, his alma mater. Our children will be attending English schools, and we’re even taking the dog along. Henry and the kids have dual citizenship, but my visa states that I’m a “settlement wife!” I do feel like a pioneer venturing into a new life.

In England I will be researching my third novel, NOT CRICKET. My first two novels were set in my home state of Maine. NOT CRICKET's Evelyn Levesque is a Maine native on a junior year at Oxford University. She returns 20 years later to track down her first love who disappeared mysteriously.

Like my central character, I spent my junior year at an English University. I had a rather dramatic trip overseas. My flight to London was cancelled when the plane exploded on its way to NYC over Lockerbie. Henry was beside himself until he learned that I was not on that doomed flight.

The next day I flew to London undeterred, assuming security would be top notch. My hometown of NYC changed so much after 9/11, but the shadow of terrorism has hung over England for decades. You learn to live with it.

My last long stint of living in England was in 2004. Henry ran the Colby-Bowdoin-Bates study abroad program in London for six months. Our children attended an English school like Hogwarts. My son won enough house points to attend a cricket match at Lord’s. We had many good adventures which I relayed to friends and family via bi-weekly e-mails. This time it will be easier with a blog.

England already feels like a second home. Raising a mixed nationality family, it helps to spend time in both countries. We are lucky that academia and writing provide the flexibility to do this.

I’ve always planned to write a novel about the Anglo-American experience. Despite a common language, there are cultural barriers leading to amusing misunderstandings. I consider myself bilingual after 17 years married to a Brit. Do I have stories to tell!

It may take a couple of weeks for me to get back on line, but I will keep this blog running weekly about our adventures abroad. We plan to travel to France, Italy, Kenya and other countries. It won’t be just vacation. I will be alternating research on NOT CRICKET with revisions on S.A.D.

First I need to finish packing and preparing the house for our lodgers (already thinking in English vernacular!) Next Wednesday we will be flying across the Atlantic and won’t return home until July 2008. After friends and family, the hardest thing to leave behind is my personal library, but I hear there are a lot of books in Oxford!

And now to answer the desert island question:

Books for the plane:
Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights
(it takes place in Oxford if in a different dimension)
Kirin Desai’s Inheritance of Loss
(well recommended literary fiction)

Books I shipped:

For Writing:
Strunk and White – the classic writer’s manual
The Brief English Handbook- another for checking grammar
Points of View – a collection of different narrative points of view
A new journal

For S.A.D:
Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener for my Bartleby character– I still have my copy from high school
Jodi Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes since S.A.D. is also set in public high school
Four nonfiction research books

For NOT CRICKET:
Valerie Martin’s The Unfinished Novel – brilliant short stories about artists and writers
Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants-excellent example of first person present and past tense interwoven narratives, a form I’m considering
Ian McEwan’s Atonement – as an alternative form, a book in chronological parts, also very English

Books I will buy in England:
A dictionary, a thesaurus and a baby name book
Does Cricket for Dummies exist?