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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Building Character

For the kids' spring break the options were:

A. The tree house in our backyard

B. Central Park in NYC (after a record 7 1/2 inches of rain)

Every April the kids and I head south to NYC, trading muddy fields and snow banks for daffodils and blooming magnolias. My mother, the artist Cynthia Lamport, has a long list of museums for the kids to visit.

Grey Landscape by Cynthia Lamport, oil, 1999

We all loved the experimental design exhibit at the Cooper-Hewitt. There were robots, computer simulation games, modern furniture, fashion, light shows, interactive house designing and Chip Kidd’s futuristic book jackets. The Design Triennial is really a children’s museum for preteens through adults with an eye to the future. By contrast, the museum itself is an ornate gem of pre-war architecture with elaborate carved moldings.

The Cooper-Hewitt Museum on 5th Ave.

My parents took the children on an historical tour at the Tenement Museum on the lower Eastside while I worked. We have an ancestor, who in the turn of the last century was living in similar accommodation, crammed 6-12 people to an apartment of 325 square feet. This was both living and working space for the tailors. My great grandfather went on to become a union official in the garment industry.

While the kids were visiting the Museum of Natural History, I met my brother for lunch downtown with his colleague. They are architects at a large, prominent firm. Lunch wasn’t just for fun. The protagonist of my third book hails from a small town in northern Maine and works as an architect in NYC.

My brother’s colleague talked about the experience of being a woman directing a male construction crew. There are a few female electricians, but it’s a testosterone-infused jobsite. At the beginning a woman architect has to fight hard to win respect. Some of the men will say things like, “I bet you thought it would be all picking paint chips.”

After proving herself, a female architect often makes a better manager due to excellent interpersonal and organizational skills. She can earn love as well as respect and encourage people to work as a team.

Although most architecture schools have a 50/50 female to male ratio, most large firms are 40/60 at the junior level, and this ratio drops as you rise through the hierarchy. At this firm there are only two women out of nine full partners: one woman who never married nor had kids and a single mother who adopted.

My brother manages to raise a family with the understanding support of his wife, who is home with the kids in the suburbs. They met when he was working for an architecture firm in Japan. Male architects have an advantage since their spouses are often more willing to take on the responsibilities of being the primary caretaker for their children.

Parenting is difficult because architects work long hours and need to prove themselves in their early 30’s. The pay is low, comparable to academia but with very limited vacation time. There are all-night charettes to make deadlines. The hours only increase with promotion. Worst of all, an architect has little control of her time.

My brother’s colleague, an avid reader of fiction, would love to join a book group but could never commit to a weeknight regularly. Work comes home thanks to Blackberries, known as “crackberries” since architects check them like addicts.

My brother, like his colleague, is compulsive about his work. The profession seems to attract a creative but intensely focused personality. You have to care about the details. I sat with my brother through a two-hour meeting in which all they discussed was millwork as in window trim, door openings and cubbies. All drafting is now done on computers, but they're still called blueprints.

My brother decided he wanted to be an architect at age five. Most architects come to the profession at a young age like a calling. Watching my brother make his dream a reality has given me a feel for the character of architects and an understanding for the profession. His colleague agreed to be my bridge to the female experience.

It may sound confusing that I’m researching my third novel while I’m still writing my second novel. It’s no more difficult than reading two books at the same time and means that I never have wasted time if my manuscript is out being read.

I like to spend time getting to know my characters and structuring the plot before I start writing. It’s never set in stone but gives me a sound foundation upon which to build.