An Englishman’s Idea of Thanksgiving

As an Englishman I know very little about Thanksgiving so I thought it would be interesting/amusing/embarrassing to write down a few ideas of what the day commemorates before going and looking up the facts on that good old interwebnet thing. So bear with me and forgive my ignorance American folk, I was born on the wrong side of the Atlantic, after all.

So the Pilgrims left Plymouth on The Mayflower some time in the early part of the seventeenth century, looking to settle in the New World and escape the dreadful weather in England. Many of them had big hats, except for the women, who had big bonnets. They were all Quakers, of course, and ran out of porridge oats almost as soon as they arrived and were totally starving because they hadn’t learned how to catch turkeys yet. Some Native Americans tried swapping some beads for whiskey which didn’t go over so well as the Pilgrim Quaker Oats People were all teetotal and told the Native Americans that God would smite them with a big anti-drinking stick. But then they caught a waft of the food that the Native American’s were cooking from across the prairie – cranberry sauce, turkey burgers, pumpkin soup, McDonalds, etc. The Quaker Oats Pilgrim People were all of a sudden really nice to the Native Americano’s and asked them if they could possibly borrow a few items of supper until the harvest came in the next year. The American National Natives said yes, Joey, Ross, Rachel, Chandler, Phoebe and Monica did the cooking, and they all lived happily ever after, until General Custer came along some years later.

Or, if you want to go all Wikipedia on the notion…

Thanksgiving now commemorates the fact that the Plymouth Pilgrims just about survived their first very harsh winter in the New World. The Natives did indeed help the Pilgrims learn how to catch certain foods in the wild and, when the harvest of 1621 had been gathered, Natives and Pilgrims celebrated and feasted together. In 1863 Thanksgiving became a properly recognised tradition although it did not become a federal holiday until 1941.  Given that it’s roots are those of a harvest festival the traditional foods eaten are seasonal foods such as pumpkin, cranberry, sweet potato, sweetcorn etc. The day has become a time to travel and spend with relatives and friends and seems to mark the beginning of the Christmas season more definitively than any traditions back here in England (where Christmas begins in September once the chain stores and supermarkets start promoting it).

My version still sounds funky to me, but as I’ve never experienced an American thanksgiving I shall just have to reserve judgement and think of all the many things I have to give thanks for this year: my wedding to the wonderful Mrs Planet; spending time with friends, reconnecting with some old friends for the first time in years and making some new friends along the way; the sunshine which has surprised us all this morning; the health of our children; the health of most of our birds and the survival of little Annie the sheep even when she looked close to passing away when she first arrived on our doorstep a couple of months ago. The list of things to be thankful for is actually huge, when you stop and think about life. I’m even thankful for my swine flu jab, even if it is still making me feel rotten today.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

My Swine Flu Jab Experience

Firstly I would like to say “Ow!” Secondly I would like to say “Ouch!” Thirdly I would like to do some very offensive swearing. Yes, I had the swine flu vaccination yesterday afternoon and my arm now feels as though elephants have been punching it with their trunks whilst their trunks were curled around enormous tree trunks covered in nails.

There are other side-effects too. My chest  is apparently being sat upon by Fatty Arbuckle; my neck has been thrown down a very deep well shaft and is currently trying to crawl its way back up in order to get on with the job of preventing my head from being all floppy; there is a pain behind my left eye which hurts so much I am not entirely sure I haven’t been mistaken for a former king of England and stuck with a Norman arrow; and I feel close to tears over the slightest of things. Obviously I am almost entirely wrapped up in how dreadful I feel and wondering how long these effects will last, but there is a crumb of concern too for the others who were given the shot yesterday.

The letter from the doctor’s surgery said to come in any time between one and six in the afternoon. I thought I would be clever and get there pretty much at one and get it over and done with. Hmm, so clever that I had to join the queue along with some forty or fifty other folk. I have a ‘normal’ flu jab every year and ordinarily there are maybe two or three other people waiting to have their arms stuck with a pin too. The surgery yesterday was standing room only. I did begin to wonder if most of those who arrived after me were either blind or terminably stupid as, despite clearly being able to see that there was lots of standing space within the room, and having seen that there were more and more people arriving after them, many of them came into the room and stood blocking the doorway. Way to go – let’s fray everyone’s nerves that little bit more by causing an obstruction, shall we?

I’m probably being harsh. I know I was nervous – my wife will testify to that as I was in ‘cheeky schoolboy’ mode, the frame of mind in which I tend to act like a nine year old in public rather than the forty-something allegedly grown-up human I actually am. My mood was not helped by the inevitable chorus of frustrated moaning and the odd voice of misinformed doom and gloom: “I don’t even know why I’m bothering,” I heard one chap say to the person sitting next to him, “There’s already a new strain of the virus which is resistant to this vaccine anyway.” I love the way people spout such desperate ‘certainties’ which are in fact entirely apocryphal, don’t you?

Every couple of minutes somebody’s name would flash up on the digital display board, accompanied by the sort of buzz that I previously assumed was a television sound effect. One woman’s name did not trigger a responding walk to the inner door, through which the two over-worked nurses could be found armed with stabby jabby utensils. A minute or so later that name disappeared and was replaced by someone else’s, someone who spotted they’d been called and went on in for their shot. Maybe five minutes after that a woman came through from reception where she’d presumably been chatting to a friend. A large smiley man told the newcomer that she’d missed her name on the board. “No I haven’t,” she replied. “Yes it came up a few minutes ago,” he insisted. “Rubbish, I’ve only just got here,” she said. Mrs Planet then tried to back the smiley man up and repeated the name that had been on the screen. The woman was having none of it. I wonder if she is still sat in the surgery this morning waiting for her name to come up?

When my name was finally called I walked through, rolled up my sleeve, said “Ow,” as quietly as possible, and that was that. It did hurt more than my seasonal jab has ever done but part of me wanted to believe that was because the nurses were working that little bit faster than usual in order to get through everyone, and were possibly a tiny bit less gentle than they could be. For the rest of the day I was a bit sore on that side but not too bad. And then I woke up in the middle of the night, having rolled over onto the jabbed side at some point, and was in agony. My arm was numb, my neck and eye had begun to hurt and that’s when I noticed how tight my chest had become. Which made me panic and thus tighten my chest even more. I could not get comfortable after that and ended up downstairs on the sofa trying to stay as upright as possible as it seemed the only position which eased the aches and pains a little. I intend to spend most of today catching up on the sleep I didn’t really manage to get last night.

And this is where my concern comes in. I am forty-something and obviously not the fittest of folk otherwise I would not need to worry about the swine flu vaccination in the first place. But I am obviously fitter than quite a few of the mostly elderly people who were also having their shot yesterday. So if I am feeling rotten and miserable today, how on earth are those guys feelings? I do hope they have people with them to help get them through the next day or two while their bodies adjust to having this new stuff pumping through their immune system. And I hope they’ve chosen more uplifting reading material to while away the day. I had already begun to read ‘Hard Times’ by Charles Dickens. Well done, Planet Boy, forward thinking there. Oh well, at least it isn’t ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’.

With a Little Help From My Friends

I was very grateful the other day for the messages of support and good vibes sent by people after I had written about the fact that I have not been particularly well in recent weeks. Things are moving slowly on that score now. I have had some TB tests results back which were negative (as expected) which means we can no go ahead with a new medication which might help prevent things getting quite so bad in the future. The chest specialist has also set things in motion so that I will soon be able to take part in some pulmonary rehab – basically spending time in the gym at the hospital, not only increasing my fitness by working out on certain machines, but also listening to some health care professionals talk through the ins and outs of certain respiratory conditions and ways of dealing with them and living as healthilty as possible under such circumstances. And today I go for my swine flu jab. Contentious, to some, I know, but for someone with underlying problems like mine it is the smart move to make. I shall let you know if it hurts as much as our neighbour reckons (she ought to know, she had it weeks ago as she is a paediatrician).

Anyway, this all seems pretty positive. And I have also found out that some of the chest pains I have been experiencing are nothing to do with respiratory problems at all. No apparently I have also been suffering with acid reflux, possibly caused by the plethora of anti-biotics which have been pumped through my fragile system in recent months. Had you asked me earlier in the year if I thought acid reflux was a serious condition I’d have said no, thinking it is just a bit of heartburn. I have changed my opinion. It hurts like hell and can send vicious spasms right across the chest and into the neck and throat too. So now I have yet more meds to take, but hopefully they will calm things down. I am also between antibiotics too, so that must also give my stomach acids a better chance of returning to some semblance of balance.

Sometimes the best medicine is other people, of course. Being unwell means I’ve not seen too many people, however, apart from my long-suffering and ever-wonderful wife, without whom I might just give up and go completely mad. I am also very grateful to the people who have been helping to take my mind off of things at times with their excellent blogs, foremost among them being someone who is known to me in the physical world and whose posts keep the grey matter churning: MDS. The others I want to mention today are part of a cyber community which has entertained me – thanks Paudie -  taught me much about sport and now about wider-ranging topics too – thanks Steve - and brought music, opinion and oddities such as yesterday’s kids TV swine flu jab song – thanks Jane. There are many others but these guys are the ones I return to again and again and am always so glad that I do. Check them out.

The X-Factor? No Thanks, I’m Happy With The J.R.R. (Tolkien) Factor

I am currently reading a book which has allegedly sold more than twice as many copies around the world than there are people living in Britain. JRR Tolkien’s ‘The Lord of the Rings‘, according to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, er, I mean according to Wikipedia, has been purchased 150 million times since it was first published in 1954. By Wiki-reckoning it is the second most popular fictional work of all time, coming in 50 million copies shy of ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ by Charles Dickens. Pretty impressive, until you read that the Bible is estimated to have sold somewhere between 2.5 and 6 billion and Chairman Mao’s ‘Little Red Book’ has been snapped up by at least 800 million and perhaps as many as 6.5 billion paying customers. The Koran is high up the list too, lest Islam should feel aggrieved that Christians and Communists are hogging the limelight, as they did for much of the 20th century.

Of course such figures are bunk, really. Barcodes and digital tracking have only been in existence for a relatively short time compared to the lifespan of the religious tomes included in the list. How exactly can anyone know how many copies of a book like The Bible have been sold over a span of some two thousand years? ‘Ring Ring!’ “Hello?” “Oh hello, is that the Pope?” “Yes it is, who is calling?” “Hello, my name is Bernard, I am calling from Wikipedia. Could you spare a few moments of your time to talk to us about sales of your book?” “My book?” “You know, the one you had ghost-written. What’s it called? Let me look at my list again. Oh yes, The Bibble.” “You mean The Bible?” “That’s the one. How many units have you shifted this past two millennia?” “Perhaps I should get my office to call you back.” “Sure thing.” “Anything else I can do for you? A signed Book of Psalms, perhaps?” “No, you’re alright.”

Anyway, I’m reading Tolkien again for a couple of reasons. One is because I’ve been under the weather and there is nothing like a huge book to plough through when illness makes concentrating on other things difficult. And the beauty of ‘The Lord of the Rings’ is that one can drop off in the middle of some of the interminably long songs and poems by the elves or the dwarves, and wake up several pages later when the ditty has finally ended. But the other reason I’ve returned to a book I first read when I was about sixteen and have reread on quite a few occasions since, is because I have recently read the ‘Inkheart‘ triilogy by Cornelia Funke. I am new to her work (as happens so often these days, the film drew me to the novels) and became so immersed in the Inkworld that I could not help but compare the reading experience with that first time I read Tolkein. They are miles apart in style and divergent in tone but Funke has achieved what few beyond Tolkien have achieved – she has conjured up an entire world from her own imagination which, despite its dangers and tragedies, almost seems preferable to the real world. Why? For the same reason many of us wish we could slip inside Tolkien’s pages and spend time in Middle Earth: the Inkworld and the world of the Hobbits are worlds of honour, of valour and of the kind of romantic heroism which seems sadly lacking in our own times. Our heroes, according to the gutter press and commercial television, are self-obsessed wannabe celebrities and people who appear in soap-operas on TV. Call me strange and bookish if you must but who would you rather have at your side in a crisis, Leona Lewis and Katie Price or a couple of doughty hobbits and an axe-wielding dwarf?

Dancing With The Daffodils

If Paul McCartney was a celebrity hero who left me feeling tongue-tied, today I am thinking of another hero of mine, one who had the opposite effect. I’ve written previously about having started my BA in English Studies in my thirties and about how I wondered what on earth I was doing amongst all the youngsters and hipsters. One of the people who inspired me to achieve the things I went on to achieve was a tall, gangly professor of Victorian Literature called Chris Brooks.

In my first year I did not know him particularly well as I did not take any of his classes. But I knew from the lectures he gave on Marxism and on the Industrial Revolution that here was a towering intellect. In my second year I was rather disappointed not to have been placed in his class for my Nineteenth Century Literature module. That year, however, saw the first occurence of the respiratory problems which have dogged me on and off ever since. I missed so many weeks of class that in the end it was agreed that I should take the rest of the academic year off and retake my second year. This was another of those instances which seemed like a disaster at first but in the end turned out to be the making of my academic career. One of my first two classes when I came back to retake the year was a module on 20th century literature which I had already virtually completed apart from the final examination (and thus I was very familair with all the reading and actually found time to read extra material and increase my knowledge). The other class was 19th Century Lit, again, and this time I was taught by Chris Brooks.

From the very first moment I sat in his classroom I knew I’d been right to feel disappointed the previous year. Unlike some of his colleagues he did not suffer fools gladly and if a student gave a ridiculous or ill-considered answer to a question he would not indulge them and say “That’s interesting. Would you care to tell us a little more?” Instead he would be more likely to shake his head disapprovingly and say “No!” before moving on to someone less flippant.

He was also a walking encyclopedia of historical events, of literature and literary quotes. I began to play a little game: I would look up obscure nineteenth century poets or novellists before class and somehow try and work a quote in from them when I spoke to him. I never caught him out, he always either finished the quote before I did (as he was well aware of my game) or he knew exactly where it had come from, what year it had been written, what colour socks the author had been wearing on the day, and the size of their pupil dilation when the sunshine hit their face after breakfast. Well, maybe not quite all of that information but you get the idea.

It did not take me long to realize that Chris was something of a hero to me. I was surprised, in a way, having given up on heroes after John Lennon had been shot some twenty years earlier. But I had to admit that here was a man I wanted to emulate, someone whose abilities I wished to assimilate, and whose personality inspired me to work even harder at my own studies. Despite his example, however, I found I was struggling midway through that first term back after so long away with illness. While I had been unwell I had been focusing on returning to university as the moment my life would click back into order and the difficult days would be behind me. But it was not quite so simple. I had to make a whole new group of friends as my initial year were obviously a step ahead of me now, and I was uncertain whether my emerging dreams of working towards a doctorate in Literature were sensible or attainable for someone who came into the academic game so late.

One afternoon I knocked on Chris’s office door and told him about how I’d been hanging my hopes and my sanity on returning to university for months and yet now I was back I was not sure quite where I belonged any more. We shoved an ashtray towards me, as he always did when fellow smokers entered his office, and we produced plumes of blue smoke while he pondered my concerns. Then, dedicated Marxist that he was, he phrased his response in the following terms:

“Capitalist society forces the individual to behave in ways which are contrary to his own better conscience.” he said, and then listed various ways in which capitalism had placed certain expectations upon me, as it does upon everyone. People in their 30s are not supposed to go off chasing academic dreams, they’re supposed to be slogging their guts out in some career in which they’ve already begun to climb the ladder. What I was feeling, he continued, was the pressure of society to do what I am supposed to do rather than what I choose to do.

“Don’t ever blame yourself. It’s those buggers out there!” He was shouting and pointing through the window by this stage and for an instant I felt as though he was cross with me. Then I understood that he was angry with capitalism, with Western society for trying to make us worship one thing only – money – and to behave according to unspoken rules in pursuit of that thing. His was an anger that he’d clearly felt all his life. And here he was experiencing it on my behalf too. I left his office that day not only more assured that I should allow myself to pursue my academic dreams but also certain that I had made a new and wonderful friendship.

I have never forgotten Chris’s words that day, nor the fact that he wanted me to liberate myself fully from the shackles of societal expectations, something he wished for everyone. His words would have stayed with me throughout my life anyway but they have been etched indelibly upon my brain because of events that took place a couple of months later. It was the beginning of the second semester and I had my exam results back. My 19th century result had been my worst one – the only examination in which I did not quite achieve a 1st (I was short by three marks). I’d written a note to myself to go and have a chat with Chris to see if I could work out where I’d fallen short of the mark, and I went into my first lecture of a new module. The lecturer was about to begin when the head of school entered. She spoke to our lecturer in whispers for a few moments and it was clear something was wrong. Then she came to the rostrum and announced that Chris Brooks had died suddenly over the weekend.

I was absolutely destroyed. I sat through the lecture but, unusually for me, did not make a single note, did not actually hear a word that was being said. All I could hear were the words of Chris Brooks, from seminars and lectures and conversations in his office or over coffee. There was a film screening after the lecture but I and several others who had been close to Chris skipped it and went to the nearest cafe to try and make sense of our feelings. So many people were affected. A little later I walked into the English department, almost hoping to bump into Chris and disprive this nonsense about him being dead. The departmental secretary, who shared a birthday with Chris, had placed a single daffodil on his office door (Wordsworth being one of his favourite poets, he had won a school prize as a boy for his reading of ‘Daffodils’ in front of his school). The flower somehow made this impossible news seem finally real and I cried as I walked along the corridor.

When his funeral service was announced a few days later the head of school asked that undergraduates please respect that it was a service for his family and to therefore stay away rather than flood the small crematorium. His postgraduate students were allowed to attend however. Unbeknown to me until the following day, a plea had been made on my behalf and on behalf of Pele, another undergraduate Chris was close to, that we be allowed to attend the service. I felt truly honoured. It did not lessen the leaden sensation in the pit of my stomach that had arrived with the news of Chris’s death. But it made me feel close to him once more, inspired once more. In many ways my academic achievments after that time are testament to the grounding Chris gave me and to the belief he showed in me and enabled me to find in myself. It will soon be eight years since his demise. I still miss him and wish I could talk through life’s hills and dales with him. In my mind’s eye he is dancing with the daffodils somewhere beyond space and time.

I WANDER’D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch’d in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth