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Yours Truly ...
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The British Is Coming!
Ronnie Bray
"Those days are over!" I told myself aloud, posing in front of the full length mirror. The shop assistant looked bemused, but then she had seen strange folk in her store before.
In March of 1998, I went into "Cowboys" in Cody, Wyoming and tried on their western hats. Like everything in the shop, they were very good, and I have to admit that they gave me a cutting-edge, high style look that I liked. Nevertheless, with some sadness I realised that they were not for me. My cowboy days were over.
It is a fair while since I had put on western gear and sung Country Music in the clubs and theatres of Northern England. "Those days are over." I emphasised to convince myself as I strode from the store into the gentle but welcome heat of a bright March day, one of the few in which snow had not fallen.
Norma died at the end of 1997 and with her my cherished dream of moving to America to enjoy what we hoped would be a lengthy retirement in days of reliable sunshine. I felt a sadness knowing that this visit was probably the last time I would see Pam, Andy, and Curtis, and their families.
However, as it is written, Man proposes and God, in his time, disposes. Drifting on the Internet supplied me with details of Gay Clawson Kleinman, a widow of Mesa, Arizona. We e-mailed, spoke on the hone, met, married, moved Gay to England and, when I retired, decided to relocate to Arizona. Thanks To Gay, my dream of American sunsets was alive again!
As I write, our belongings are in freight, our tickets paid for, and our house sold. Next week, we begin the long and painful process of saying goodbye to family and friends, institutions and customs, even to the delightful but obscure dialect that fell upon my ears during boyhood among the dark Yorkshire mills whose people are as hard as the craggy boulders that lie scattered among the grasses, heather, and peat of the wild, windswept moors.
I am coming to America! A country I have held in high regard since I was a boy learning about America through films that highlighted the American Way of Life. Films in which patriotism was deliberately and unashamedly manifest. Such films expressed the principle that America might not be perfect, but it was worth fighting for. That it was a freedom-loving country, where fair play and justice would ultimately triumph.
When I am asked what it is about America and Americans that I like, I point out that my experience is almost exclusively in the North Western states where the scenery is too beautiful and grand to be described, and that if I attempted to describe what I had seen, people would think I was exaggerating. I tell them to go and see for themselves.
However, it is with its people that America scores highest. The USA, like most countries, has its social ills, criminals, and not so nice people, but these are an aberrant minority. Most Americans are good, decent, and helpful people who value up-front honesty and are happy to extend a hand to someone who looks as if they need it.
I am coming to America to live my American Dream. I would have liked to arrive in the New World, like the Pilgrim Fathers at the prow of a ship, seeing the landfall peer over the horizon before looming clear and beautiful in the morning sunlight. But, I suppose that arriving through the air like America national emblem, the bald eagle, is appropriate. My first landfall in the US is Newark NJ, so that the Statue of Liberty can get a good view of me arriving. I have booked a window seat so that she will not be disappointed.
Once there, I will melt imperceptibly into the background as I assume an American identity. Like other Americans I will shop at Costco for things I don really need, buying them because they are on special offer, visit Dairy Queens with the kids, and act like a kid just so I can have a chocolate Blizzard, eat the occasional Big Mac just to rattle my doctor, try to remember to drive on the right hand side of the road, and buy insane fireworks off the reservation.
When I put on a few more years, I will wear powder blue canvas shoes and talk loudly about the way things where when I was a kid in the Old Country while I hold up the queue in the Post Office searching for the dime I was sure I had in a purse grown too small to accommodate my arthritic fingers.
I will listen to Country music radio and sing along, tune to PBS for the classical music and the hilarious Car Talk and, sometimes to conservative shock jocks to remind me what democracy can become if we neglect to be vigilant in the face of intolerance, bigotry, and hatred. I will embrace and promote high ideals of justice, equality, brotherhood, and enjoin the Code of the West, where neighbour takes care of neighbour and unspoken need is met with help.
I will celebrate the diversity of America, enjoying the disparate groups that comprise the mosaic of American life, and its enrichment by customs and cultural patterns from their many traditions.
Best of all, I will get to know my grandchildren better, teach them to sing On Ilkley Moor Baht t, in Broad Yorkshire, rescue them from their parents, teach them how to spit long-distance, tell them tales of old England and Yorkshire, filled with ghosts that were and never were to frighten them so I can hug them safe again, and spoil them rotten with sticky, bad-for-them treats as often as I have the cash to do so
The days that once I knew are not over. I may not sing the songs I once did, but I shall go native in honour of the best of a nation that has entertained me for so many years, and that has sheltered and nurtured my children, and their children, and their children children.
The British is coming, and one of the first things I will do is get a good-looking cowboy hat. Youl notice me when I come through your town. I the one with the Levi, denim jacket, spurs, Stetson, and Union Jack waistcoat, who is living the days I thought were over, and loving every star-spangled minute!
Copyright 2000
Ronnie Bray
All Rights Reserved
We arrived in the US in June 2000, and have lived in Eastern Tennessee, NW Montana, and we now live in the Arizona desert with our two champion dogs. |
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Mr and Mrs Bray - October 2000
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A Word in the Professor Ear!
By Ronnie Bray
It is an old and worthy saying; cobbler should stick to his last! This has nowhere been better illustrated than in a book I am reading with the simple title, nderstanding the UK. A learned professor, who lays claim to wenty-seven years of studying the subject and twenty-four years teaching it,wrote the book. I was impressed. He also states, lived in Britain on several occasions, and I have crossed the Atlantic a total of twenty-four times so far.
Notwithstanding his many discussions with iverse and varied British people(that piece of tautology should have given me a clue!), he says his most informative insights came from conducting six student tours to the UK and Ireland. He does have some insights that are on the money, but other of his nsightsare mere fumblings that no more represent the UK than the Ku Klux Klan represents America.
I will refer to the august professor as ank,which is probably what his intimates call him, and will not divulge his real name because he might still be foisting his particular brand of cultural vandalism on unwitting and eager students who sit at the feet of the horse mouth at Colorado State University.
Hank is, or was, Professor of History, and his understanding of British history seems sound enough, therefore I do not take issue with him on that score. However, he reveals his incredible short-sightedness when he advises American tourists not to raipse over Britain to look at scenery when so much of it abounds in America. There is nothing at all to match the Grand Canyon, the deserts of Arizona, the multicoloured plateau of New Mexico, the majesty of the Rockies, the thick forest of the Great Smokies, the swampland of Florida or the brilliance of New England in early October.
He later goes on to say, merica is probably the best endowed country in the world when it comes to scenic areas. Britain is far behind in this category. He specifically draws attention to, he Lake District in the north-west of England where famous poets sat about chilly shores in the drizzle.
What a vision! And how far removed from the reality of the Lakeland Poets. This group included William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Robert Southey and others. There are also several poets not usually associated with the Lakes but whose work was influenced by visits to the region, such as John Keats, who travelled through on his way to Scotland in 1818 and recorded his impressions of its majestic landscape in his yperion. John Ruskin accompanied his family to the Lake District as a child and was inspired by its outstanding beauty to write his earliest published poetry, and Matthew Arnold composed some of his best-known verse after he had made a pilgrimage to the grave of William Wordsworth.
It is apparent that what failed to inspire the vulgar dogmatist, gave rise to a significantly different effect in the sensitive souls of those who sought profound spiritual meaning rather than brash grandeur in their surroundings. His failure to see and feel what they saw and felt in that place is his tragedy, and ought not to be visited upon the innocent.
Of other places of beauty that have inspired poets, composers, artists and writers, he blas, ll of this is very nice but unspectacular.
This from a man who has never liquidly quivered in awe on the very brink of Longwood Edge highest point, watched in the early morning as a white mist rolls up the Wrekin, delighted to see Dedham Vale change aspect and colour as the day moves from moonlight into sunlight in a green springtime, viewed a fiery sunset spread fingers of glowing light over the Vale of York, breathlessly stood among the bouldered grandeur of the peaty moors in a cloudburst where the Rochdale Road bends downhill towards Lancashire, loped the fells and climbed the grey crags of the Lake District in the last days of snow, seen the fruited fields of Shropshire ready for the harvester blade, or experienced flight up the Aire and Calder Canal seven locks at Bingley.
Nor has he sat bewitched in the autumn cooling across the river from Bolton Abbey and watched lengthening shadows transmogrify its ancient churchyard, dallied in the dark of a foggy November dawn for the massive red pile of Durham Cathedral to disengage itself from the clingy cloak of shapeless fog to emerge victorious yet again after more than a thousand years, toured the Trossachs, visited the Vale of Gloucester, meandered the Mendips, tramped the Chalk Downs, nosed through the New Forest, moseyed the Welsh Marches, been to Bangor velvet hills, plodded the Pennine Way, angled off Anglesey, breathed by the Brecon Beacons, limned the Llyn Peninsula, ogled the Orkneys, careened through Cornwall, dined in Devon, whelked in Whitby, covered the Cotswolds, shopped in Skipton, foraged the Forest of Dean, raved over Roseberry Topping, been cheered by the Cheviots, kicked his rising admiration through Kielder Forest Park, or watched mute and breathless at wheeling seabirds on Marsden Rock at South Shields.
I make no odious comparison with these places of outstanding beauty and the scenery of America, because they are distinct and dissimilar. Nor do I diminish aught from America places of unique and compelling beauty, whether grand or cosy. But to impose the pples and orangesview that they should not be sought out or looked at by curious visitors because they have scenery back home is like advising diners at a restaurant not to eat the food because there are victuals back at the house, and is an extraordinary example of cultural vandalism for which I can find no mitigation.
But, I digress. My major complaint about Professor Hank unguidebook is reserved for what he has to say about British food. I understand that a first-time visitor to the United Kingdom will find the food different, unless they go to the many fast food outlet franchises where they can eat exactly the same fare as they did at home, but at twice the cost.
So, in order to get to my chief complaint I overlook minor niggles, such as his remark that the westernmost part of Yorkshire is grim and industrial, but other sections, which are called idings,have some ruggedly beautiful stretches of green hillsides and foggy moors. How can a rofessor of Historywho has been studying his subject for wenty-seven yearsnot know that the west of Yorkshire is a Riding the West Riding?
When he grudgingly tips his hat to Bonnie Scotland, he is quick to snatch it back. ighland Scotland has Britain ruggedest mountains, and best hunting, fishing, and skiing regions. Such well-developed recreational opportunities make the Highlands a popular place for vacationers. While visiting Americans might enjoy the scenery and the small towns of this region, they should always recognise that the United States has vast recreational resources along these lines.
It sounds as if he is saying they were better staying at home! But I am only interested in what he has to say about the food, and so I will press on, ignoring his calling traditional Scottish regalia lannish paraphernalia.
Yes, the food. This cultural assassin has the temerity to launch an assault on the staple diets of millions of Britons, and he does so in a way that reeks of disdain, distaste, and hybris. In the matter of fish and chips, that, from his report, he appears not to have eaten, it would be perfectly acceptable for him to say that he ate them in the traditional manner, but that they did not suit his taste. However, his attack on the ancestral repast is, not to put too fine a point on it, intemperate, derogatory, despicable, offensive, and pejorative.
ish and chips, consisted of a hunk of unspecified fish in a puff of batter accompanied by a mass of greasy fried potatoes. All of this used to be served up in a cone of ordinary newspaper that rapidly became translucent with grease.
Fish and chips is still served up in a cone of newspaper, but I have been acquainted with the dish for more than seventy years and have never had them in newspaper but what they were wrapped inwardly by a lining of stiff white absorbent paper.
What it more, no one ever ate nspecified fishunless they were ignorant. In the overwhelming majority of chip les found in Britain the fish is either cod or haddock, and if it is not marked up in the fish and chip shop, then asking a member of the Frying Fraternity will reveal the nature of the denizen of the deep that has been cooked, not in a uff of batterbut in a coating of crispy golden batter. No mystery there for someone with a tongue in his head. But, ttila the cultural Gorillais not done. Not content with damning fish and chips to Hell, he next proceeds to denigrate those who enjoy them.
ough looking characters used to be seen propped up in doorways clawing into their greasy cones for this old staple of the British diet.
British soldiers sed to be seenwearing red coats. Most Britishers sed to be seennot owning cars, and so after a night out they either walked home or caught the bus. The fish and chips would warm the walk home, and many frying establishments were placed near bus stops to catch the returnees on the last leg of their journeys. And one of those rough characters could have been my father, who was - I will have you know - only 'rough' when he was drunk!
And, yes, I have seen the odd drunk propping himself up inside Jubb shop doorway to shelter from the rain a wise thing to do and sometimes they have been in the company of a fried supper. But, ough looking It is true that few of them were dressed in evening suits with black ties, patent leather shoes, and ruffed dickies, but if their honest faces were anything, they were not usually rough. Lugubrious? Perhaps. Intoxicated? Naturally, that why I referred to them as drunks. But very few of them can accurately be called rough in the outrageous way Hank describes them, as if the whole nation of fish and chip devourers were inebriated barbarians that the foreigner had better beware, or else suffer dire consequences.
He says, in effect, that the traditional fish and chip shops have had their day, having yielded to more exotic Oriental take away dishes. While there is some truth in his statement, it would be foolish to write off fish and chips altogether, for they still have an impressive presence in British communities, an envied and not easily relinquished place in British hearts, and a home in the hearts of foreign visitors who are not put off by Hank insensitive and inaccurate culinary critique.
rdinary British food,he likens to British weather. ostly unexcitingbut with few bright spots amid the general dreariness. At best,intones the professor, ritish food is similar to good American food. At worst, it is greasy and overcooked Better on average than Irish or Russian food, which really does not say all that much for it. By this stage in his book, page forty-seven, I had begun to wonder if, history of which he is the master apart, he could find anything nice to say about Britain.
He hands out another left-handed compliment: he British cook a few things quite well: simple, plain, unspiced roasts, particularly roast beef, for instance, or various kinds of fresh fish, also prepared simply. Shepherd Pie he dismisses with all the panache of the Philistine that described Bruch Violin Concerto in D, orsehair scraping on catgut! The Pie he says, damning it with no praise at all, s a simple concoction of ground meat and onions covered with mashed potatoes. He could have added that landing men on the moon was a simple matter of some men in a tube being pushed through space. Quite!
The pretentious pontiff, getting into his stride and warming to his crusade of destruction avers, n Britain, vegetables can suffer a fate as horrible as that of the coagulated meat pie. egusually means peas, but on poorer menus brussels sprouts can be substituted. Peas can plop onto plates cooked to death, all concave and grayish green. In all my years I have never seen a plate cooked to death, all grayish green, although they do function best at holding food when they are slightly concave! Without taking a breath, he charges on, russels sprouts can be so overcooked that a simple thrust through with a fork can cause them to explode like a green caterpillar underfoot. He has no regard for caterpillars either!
The poor man! Has he never been to a greengrocershop and seen rows on rows of cabbages, cauliflower, chervil, Spanish onions, spring onions, parsnips, Swedes, carrots, turnips, fennel, peas, Brussel sprouts, runner beans, broad beans, asparagus, spinach, kidney beans, celery, celeriac, Savoy, kale, endless varieties of potatoes, mushrooms, lettuce, radish, tomatoes, capsicums, red cabbage, artichokes globe and Jerusalem, beetroot, lima beans, haricot beans, lentils, split peas, chick peas, mange tout peas, garlic, black beans, broccoli, chestnuts, maize cobs, aubergine, shallots, endive, leeks, okra, plantains, and a whole host of exotic vegetables that have been imported into Britain since the sixties? Peas or sprouts my eye!
There is worse to come. The crainiac is just winding up his arm to assault more hallowed institutions, referring to the hamber of horrorsof ritish food,even as he invites his gentle readers to ncounter bad British food [by going] to a cheap short order restaurant called caf [that] bask in the glare of fluorescent light and have a deafening level of noise from the roar of the cooking grease [curiously, he omits he smell of the crowd!, the semi-intelligible shouts of the staff and the endless clatter of heavy dishes. Now, I believe that the man is gone completely mad, and invites his unsuspecting readers to join him in his nightmare.
Yet there is worse to come. mpossible!I hear you exclaim. But orseis what I said, and orseit is! He next turns his venomous fangs towards the British Meat Pie. Speaking for the British, he sticks his grubby fingers into our mouths along with his words, as if he were both spokesman and marionette-meister.
ritish people forever complain that their particular steak and kidney pie is overdone or, something worse, underdone, when the kidneys do, alas, remind one of their essential function when they were embedded in a living animal.
Overlooking what he describes as he worldwide British maritime navy,another example of professorial superfluous, redundant, tautology that I have, as promised, completely overlooked, well, almost, I now report his findings in that grave matter of the British Pork Pie. Not wishing to do to his work the violence he has done to my food, I will let him condemn himself from his own mouth, but first I will share a non-pejorative definition of the noble Pork Pie.
Pork pie is a traditional British food. It consists of cured pork meat and pork jelly in a hot water crust pastry and is normally eaten cold. It is a savoury deliciousness to be treasured. The earliest recorded recipe for pork pie dates to the thirteen hundreds. Then, it was flavoured with nutmeg, mace, and raisins, and the offynor crust was filled with melted butter rather than pork jelly. Yorkshire folk and their poorer neighbours to the west, still prefer their Pork Pies eaten warm, on a plate, sliced into six, and drizzled with brown sauce.
But for all their present simplicity of seasoning, their place on British tables is assured. They are eaten cold, the perfect picnic snack, easy to transport, and can be sampled without soiling the hands by holding the pastry coffin and devouring the innards with gentle finesse, noisily sucking up the jelly when it threatens to run away.
That is, unless you are fortunate enough to buy one from the tiny butcher shop just over the bridge on the road below the mediaeval church in Skipton, in which case these culinary delectations are straight out of the oven and very warm, some might say ot,when they are purchased. Crowds of people, including American tourists who have not been dissuaded by reading a certain book, throng the narrow pavement taking care not to let the not-yet-set jelly drip down their sleeves to their elbows. But here Hank perspective:
ork pies,he effluviates, eserve their notoriety. They have the specific gravity of lead, and they can be thrown just like hand grenades or baseballs. One can remove the pie crust and expect to find a layer of shiny green gelatinous scum. Inside this layer is a core of pinkish, grayish pork that looks as if it is composed of snouts or tails.
One wonders why he doesn just come right out and say what he is thinking instead of beating around the bush! Perhaps this gentleman is a thwarted Yankee humorist who imagines himself of the stamp of Mark Twain, Will Rogers, or Artemus Ward. He is none of those, nor anything like unto them. The specific gravity of lead is 11340 - that of cooked pork less than 2000. Draw your own conclusion.
There is much more in his book for which he deserves flogging, but I have imposed on your good nature and attention spans too long already, so I will close with his diatribe of error regarding that honourable and regal institution, the Yorkshire Pudding.
Like many traditional British foods Scottish haggis, for example the Yorkshire Pudding as fare for common folk was brought on by extreme poverty during times when hungry working folks needed to eat but could not afford, or had no other access to, the flesh of animals. Flour, eggs, milk, salt, and a little beef lard or dripping never rease,which is something used to lubricate wheel bearings were usually available to an agrarian population even in times of want, and these are the basic ingredients of the orkshire.
In the big houses, it was cooked in a tin under the rotating spit on which beef was roasting. The rich juices from the meat dripping on to it provided its delicious flavour. In better times in modern Yorkshire, it is still sometimes cooked around the meat in a roasting tin, and still occasionally served as a first course before the meat and vegetable, smothered with unspeakably beefy gravy. It can be as light as a feather by letting it rise to nothing more than a shell, or it can be cooked to a consistency of some substance, reflecting the oft-felt need to fill up with something that would tick to your ribsin times of cold and hardship.
Well-risen crispy Yorkshires are the sign of a good cook, and British chefs unable to turn out perfect ones, cannot hold up their head in public, especially in Yorkshire, where the entire population are connoisseurs of the beloved comestible. Hank blasts the King of Puddings with his haphazard shotgun, his snotty disdain for what others value, and his pitifully inadequate grasp of traditional British fare.
orkshire pudding, although widely celebrated,he concedes, eem to be only pastry made in the grease that comes from roasting.
Had he put some into his mouth, he would have had more to say about it that was less disparaging. What something eemsto be can be readily verified or controverted by the age-old principle of practical research dwelling in the celebrated saying, he proof of the Pudding is in the Fill in the missing word, Professor. It has six letter, the first is "E" and the last is "G"!
Who knows how many visitors breathless with anticipation at visiting the Ancient Motherland has Hank sent tumbling in with a foul taste in their mouths even before they have had opportunity to discover for themselves the delightful taste of these foods, because he has poisoned their minds with his malicious monograph?
Who knows what horrors invest his mind to make him so negative and bloody-minded towards a country that has, however indirectly, given him a good living for many years? What is in his heart that compels his acrimony? Is it written to amuse adolescents who don know better, and who have a tendency to believe whatever comes out of the mouths of their mentors, especially when they hold a chair, and must, de rigeur, laugh at their jokes however inappropriate or misleading they are? I have no doubt that Hank book filled a gap in the market, but the publisher really ought to have gone for the gap. I have placed the professor tome nderstanding the UKon the bookshelf between he Minutes of the Meetings of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion,and he Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk,where it now keeps company with the like-minded.
Hank can neither blame the ignorance of youth, nor the forgetfulness of old age, because he and I share the same birth year, and such nastiness has not struck me down. We are each responsible for doing our very best at all times, and obligated not to yield to the demons that plague writers who imagine they need to be wildly different and dishonestly confrontational to be read.
In a paragraph that I suspect someone who had not read his book wrote for him, he avers:
ournalistspursuit of royal sexual peccadilloes borders upon insensitivity and, of course, goes far over the line of common decency and good taste.
How right he is to point out that nsensitivity,ommon decency,and ood taste,have a place in human life. These very virtues would have been most welcome in his work.
Copyright 2006 Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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Praise: Great Ebayer, Lightning Fast Payment, Highly Recommended, An Ebay Asset, A+++++ |
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Praise: Great Ebayer! Thanks for visiting Tim's Discount Pet Supplies! |
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Praise: Fast payment....Perfect Ebayer!!! Thank you, Wish to do business again. A++++ |
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Praise: super fast payment! pleasure doing business! |
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Praise: KEEP ON COMING BACK FOR MORE! A++++ TRUSTED E-BAYER - THANKS AGAIN! |
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Praise: excellent ebay transaction. thank youi for your business. |
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Praise: Great customer and fast payment. Thanks from www.aleratec.com |
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Praise: Great buyer. Fast payment. Highly recommended. Thanks from www.aleratec.com |
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Praise: FAST PAYMENT AND A SMOOTH TRANSACTION |
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Praise: thanks alot fast payment |
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Praise: thanks alot fast payment |
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Praise: great buyer. fast payment!!! |
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Praise: Great customer to do business with, Thank You |
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Praise: Fast payment. Easy to deal with |
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Praise: AWESOME EBAYER! FAST PAYMENT A+++++++++++++++ |
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Praise: Great eBayer. Thank you. |
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Praise: SUPERB EBAYER, GREAT CUSTOMER, FAST PAYMENT, ASSET TO EBAY, A++++++++++++ |
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Praise: Thank you for the quick payment. Great transaction... |
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Praise: Good buyer, prompt payment, valued customer, highly recommended. |
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Praise: Hope to deal with you again. Thank you. DOG STUFF |
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Praise: Thank you for an easy, pleasant transaction. Excellent buyer. A++++++ |
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Praise: Very fast payment...well done and thanks very much...AAA+++ |
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Praise: nice transaction - thanks |
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Praise: Quick response and fast payment. Perfect! THANKS!! |
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Praise: excellent ebayer. Highly recommended.Thanks.Welcome any time. |
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Praise: Absolutely wonderful transaction! Hope to do business again! |
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Praise: Fast payer, great eBayer. Thanks! |
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Praise: Great communication. A pleasure to do business with. |
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Praise: excellent ebayer super fast payment AA++ |
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Praise: Good buyer, prompt payment, valued customer, highly recommended. |
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Praise: Great Ebayer. Quick Payment. Keep me in mind for your future FLAG / Patch needs |
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To see all feedback for this member, go to the Member Profile page.
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