On the 3rd Day of Advent, 2014...

THE CHRISTMAS CAKE

December 2011 was a truly shabby month in my neck of the woods. I'm not a naturally depressed person --  though I grant you it's easy to get despondent in the days leading up to Christmas, particularly during a historical era of joyless seasonal consumerism when the business of Christmas has become just that...business -- but I was probably as downhearted as I'd ever been. Still not over my mother's death, recently divorced, and disappointed by an inauspicious attempt to re-locate to Washington DC, I had thrown myself into a self-financed production of my so-far successful one-woman interpretation of A Christmas Carol, which my supporters had convinced me to re-mount, but had not supported. I know how it is; the holiday season nowadays is so ridiculously busy that it's impossible to do everything. To add insult to injury, as my savings were being swallowed up by A Christmas Carol at the City Theatre Austin, my handbag and its contents (including new BlackBerry telephone, wallet containing driving license, INS card, and a large sum of cash I'd taken out that very day to purchase gifts) was stolen from my theatre dressing room while I was on stage waxing Dickensian to a handful of devoted followers about, to quote Jacob Marley, "charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence..."

I didn't like to be glum at Christmas. In the past, I'd always been able to do something to change my mood, to lift my spirits. I usually read A Christmas Carol but that obviously wasn't going to work this time. Thus, after closing the show that sucked every last dime from my bank account, I wracked my brains for a way to cheer myself up. Out of the blue, I recalled the Making of the Nason Family Christmas Cake.

When I was little, my mother would make the family Christmas cake in a very particular way. Mum would sit my brother, sister and me around the washing machine in the kitchen to help. When I say we'd sit around the washing machine, what I mean is, the 1950s kitchen in our Victorian terrace-row house was so tiny that it didn't have a table. The term "no room to swing a cat" comes to mind, but with my stout, elderly kitty sitting beside me, I shan't say it aloud. Anyway, Mum would pull the old Hoover-matic twin-tub washing-machine into the center of the room -- and when I say "centre," I use the term loosely, since the centre of the room meant the area you could stand upright without actually touching the walls -- place a tablecloth on it and three little stools around it and there we would sit while she made the cake. She'd measure out all those delectable ingredients -- currants, raisins, sultanas, hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, dried fruit, glace cherries -- and before they went into the big brown mixing bowl, we'd each get a little handful. As the mixture was coming together, she'd pass around the wooden spoon so we could partake of the cake, pre-cooking. No worry about germs in those days. Germs were good for you then. They built up your immune system, particularly with siblings. "We are family; sick brother, sick sister, sick me..."

After our father left the family when we were small children, life at home changed. It became a waiting game. Dad moved to a tiny town called Chard, ninety miles from Winchester. At first, he came back on his days off, Sunday and Wednesday afternoon. We would dash home from school on Wednesday to see if his van (various Ford Thames's) was parked outside the house. If so, we'd race down Elm Road to throw ourselves into his arms. But more often than not, the vehicle wasn't there and we'd be disappointed. First, he stopped coming on Sundays, and gradually over a period of years, on Wednesdays too. In the end, we were disappointed so often that we stopped racing. By the time we were teenagers, we dreaded the van's appearance because we no longer knew how to behave. However, when we were little, we were always waiting for him to come home.

That waiting, that potential disappointment, was worst in December. Mum quickly caught on that Christmas was becoming a sad time, a time of worry and stress for her little children. Heaven alone knows how worrying and stressful it was for her; that hardly bears thinking about. Either way, fearful that we'd only remember the season with sorrow and pain, Mum chose to "create memories" for us.

One of these memory creations was the hand-crafting of decorations for the Christmas tree. I doubt we could afford shop-bought decorations so this was surely a cost-saving idea too. On weekend afternoons, we would go walking in nature to find pinecones, acorns, rosehips and sometimes, little bunches of crabapples. There was always holly, mistletoe and ivy though I can't remember mistletoe being plentiful like it is in Texas. Back home, Mum would set the table with wire, string, scissors, paintbrushes and little pots of silver and gold paint. It sounds magical and joy-filled as I describe it now but if I remember correctly, there was much bickering and arguing and slapping: "I wanted that one!" and "That's mine!" and "Mum, it's not fair..."  These natural treasures remained in our decoration box for years to come, precious and memory-filled, exactly as Mum intended. 

"The Making of the Christmas Cake" was another of these memory-creation ideas. In the depths of my adult gloom, I wondered if by baking a cake, I could restore my waning spirits and recreate that same Christmassy glow. It was certainly worth a try.

My sister had inherited Mum's cookbook which contained the familiar cake, but I found a couple of fine English recipes on-line, and also an excellent one in my Marks & Spencer cookery book. I planned to combine them, to take the best from each. They all suggested I'd need one hour to prepare and four hours for baking. Let me repeat that. Preparation time: one hour. Cooking time: four hours.

The next day, I bought all the ingredients at our local supermarket. There were certain items which didn't fit the European description so I had to take a chance, e.g. flour. There were others that I couldn't find at all, such as currants, glace cherries, and all-spice, so I had to make substitutions.

I remember Mum saying that making a rich fruit cake could be hard on the arms. I had a touch of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome so I went to Target and bought a hand-mixer. Since my various recipes used metric and imperial weighing systems -- none of this American "cup" business for me, thank you very much -- I got swept up in the moment and bought a set of old-fashioned weighing scales like wot they done used in Downton Abbey. Eat your heart out, Mrs. Patmore.

When I got home, I was shocked to realize that I didn't have a 9" baking tin...didn't have a baking tin of any sort. Was it really that long since I'd baked anything? Apparently. Had I never made cupcakes for my stepsons? Apparently not. Hm. Perhaps I really was a wicked stepmother. I returned to the store and bought a 9" baking tin.

The day after that, my schedule was such that I could start at 5:00 p.m. and by 10:00 p.m., I would be leaning against the kitchen counter, brandy in hand, admiring my spectacular cake, cooling on the wire rack. Well, it turns out that I didn't have a wire rack but you get my drift.

At 5:00 p.m. on the appointed day, the three recipes were printed out and ready. All the ingredients were on the counter-top and ready. The kitchen was ready and so was I. The show was about to begin. I took a deep breath, and the curtain rose. 

My main recipe suggested that I first weigh out every single ingredient into separate pots. Darn it, I hadn't even unwrapped the scales. It was like Christmas already! Well, not exactly. It took me fifteen minutes just to cut the scales out of their box. And then, to get them operational, one had to build them. They needed to be put together, to be constructed. There were screws and bolts and balancing bits. I needed a Philips screwdriver. After a fifteen-minute search, I hadn't found one so I tried using an ordinary one. No such luck. I finally shoved the scales back in the box and grabbed my pitiful selection of "cups" from the cabinet. Nearly an hour had gone by. Grrr! I made the sensible (read, time-saving) decision that there was no point in weighing out everything beforehand, just the important stuff like sugar and flour, etc.

Next on the list was The Insulation of the Baking Tin. What? Apparently, the slow cooking of the cake meant that the tin had to be thoroughly insulated so as to avoid burning. I needed (a) parchment and (b) brown paper. I opened the oven gloves and tin foil drawer and there, to my great surprise, was parchment. Who knew? Now...brown paper...where would that be? None in the wrapping paper drawer or the stationery drawer. Ah, yes, I know. Down behind the fridge. Booze bags. I had to cut them up and re-configure them (after shaking out the dried cockroach legs) to fit the cake-tin, and obviously I couldn't use Scotch-tape because it would melt or something, so I stapled the paper together. Now to wrap it around the cake-tin. This wasn't as easy as it sounds. I could see what the picture wanted me to do but I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't get anything to stay in place. What could I use that wouldn't melt/dissolve/burn in the oven? I resorted to wooden clothes pegs and paper clips. Then I needed something on which to place the cake tin in the oven when the cake-mix was ready to be cooked (which at the rate I was going would be the turn of the next century.) The recipe recommended cardboard. I found an old pizza box which I washed. Yes, washed. Don't judge me. I didn't want my cake to smell of pepperoni. Another hour had passed.

At last I was ready to do some actual mixing. First thing in the process: butter and soft brown sugar. I'd already taken the butter out of the fridge (thank you; I'm not completely stupid) so it was soft. Rather than open a new packet of soft brown sugar, I decided as a cost-saving measure to use up the supply in my pantry which had been there for some time. Unfortunately, this soft brown sugar was not soft. It was the opposite of soft. It was hard and lumpy, like a big brown rock.

I went to my computer to look this up. Surely there was a way to loosen lumpy soft brown sugar. There was! I wrote it down, but before heading back to the kitchen, I checked my email and went on Facebook to tell everyone about my cake-making adventure. I posted a photo I'd taken earlier of the ingredients looking all pretty on the counter.

Pretty Picture of Ingredients

I had to tear myself away from the pretty picture to return to the catastrophic real-life scene. The online de-hardification process involved warm, damp cloths and the microwave. Slowly but surely, I partially de-lumpified this ancient sugar. Time was ticking by! I didn't want to waste my whole evening so, ploughing on, I added the brown sugar pebbles to the butter.

I tried to mix by hand but in no time at all, as Mum had warned, both arms were aching. Having to bang on the sugar stones with the wooden spoon didn't help, of course. Ah, but I had a mixer. Darn it, now I had to get the new red and shiny mixer of out of its box; that took easily fifteen minutes. It took another fifteen to work out how to use it, but once I knew what I was doing, I stuck its two wire whisk thingies into the mix and switched on. Bad idea. It seized up immediately on the brown sugar rocks.

After repairing the mixer, I thought the addition of eggs might help the situation but however slowly I added them, I couldn't stop the mix from curdling. The Marks & Sparks recipe was extremely particular about the "no-curdling" issue, and big-time curdling was taking place. I added flour but it didn't help. And there were still these half-an-inch to one-inch size sugar lumps to deal with. 

At the three-hour point, I went at the cake mix with my marble pestle and mortar. Americans call it a mortar and pestle but to Brits, it's a pestle and mortar. I vented my irritations on those lumps of sugar; I slammed them like a hurt lover. I nearly broke my old-fashioned china mixing bowl but the slamming helped both the process and my mood. With the heat from the oven, switched on since 5:00 p.m., the kitchen was heating up (as was I) so the sugar had begun to dissolve on its own. At least the electric mixer was moving freely now.

This seemed a good time to do what all first-class bakers do before moving onto the final stages of preparing a cake. I mixed myself a cocktail. A helpful gin and tonic.

Now was the moment to add the remaining ingredients. Having chosen not to measure them out beforehand, this part got a bit confusing, and the gin wasn't as helpful as expected. You see, each of the different recipes from different books from different countries had different amounts in different weights and measurements, which I hadn't taken the time to convert into stupid, friggin' cups. There were different ingredients too, as I'd got a few replacements when I couldn't find the exact item. One packet of dried fruit contained mostly dried apples and prunes which I'd never seen in a Christmas cake before. I'm not sure the addition of prunes would be necessary with all the raisins and sultanas. This cake-baking would not only be memory-making but bowel-shaking too.

Eventually, I dolloped the cake mix into the cake tin, and shoved it into the oven at 9:00 p.m. It was only after I'd closed the oven door that I realized I'd forgotten the brandy. Boll****! Who forgets the brandy?! There was only one sure way to deal with this, something that all English bakers know. You "feed" the cake with brandy after cooking, when the cake has cooled down. While you wait for the cake to cook and cool down, you feed yourself with gin. I never actually saw my mother do that but I'm positive it's what she would've recommended. 

I watched Alistair Sim's A Christmas Carol twice through, while eating toast and sipping wine. Five hours later, at 2:00 a.m. the following morning, the cake was ready and it was beautiful. I was clever enough to take a photo to prove it. I began the brandy routine right there and then...one for the cake, one for me, one for the cake, one for me...

The Beautiful, soon to be Boozy, Cake

I told Facebook that it took eight hours to make but that's not quite true. It took nine hours from start to finish. I can't proclaim that this undertaking put me in the mood for Christmas but it did inadvertently provide me with a story to tell, and that may be better than anything. Oh, and the cake was not only absolutely delicious but by the time we sliced it open on Christmas Day, it was more alcoholic than any cocktail I've ever tasted.

On the 2nd Day of Advent, 2014...

BABUSHKA -- A CHRISTMAS STORY FROM RUSSIA

 
Long ago, an old woman named Babushka lived in a tiny cottage far from the city. One snowy evening, just as she was preparing her meal, Babushka heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find three men standing before her. From their rich clothing and fine features, Babushka guessed that they were men of learning who had traveled from far away in the East. They were shivering in the cold, and little slivers of ice hung from their beards. In their arms they each carried packages, and these were dusted with snow.

"Oh my," Babushka said, "you must be freezing out there. Please come in and warm yourselves by my fire."

The three wise men bowed in thanks and followed the woman into her cottage. "Forgive us," one of the men said, "but we have been walking for a long, long time. Tonight our journey ends, for we are going to the place where the King of Kings will be born this very night. We are bringing Him gifts, and we wish only to stop for a while to warm ourselves."

"Of course," Babushka said, "but you must eat something. I have prepared a nice hot soup. Please join me." She set a table for the four of them, filling bowls with steaming soup, placing crusty bread in the center.

They sat down at the table to eat, and the men told Babushka of the joyous birth of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, about to occur. "We are waiting for the brightest star to rise," they said, "for we will follow its path. The star will guide us to the place where the King of Kings is to be born this very night."

"How I wish I could join you and bring a gift myself," Babushka sighed.

"Come with us, then," the men said heartily. "The King of Kings will welcome you, but we must be on our way soon. Will you come?"

Babushka looked around and frowned. "I cannot leave just now," she said. "I must clean the house and prepare myself, but I will come as soon as I am ready."

With that she bade the men farewell and watched from the cottage door as they set off, following the starlight's path. She waved until she could no longer see them.

Inside, Babushka washed the dishes, swept the floor, dusted and tidied the cottage. She bathed and dressed in her finest clothes, and then, looking around, she began to gather gifts to take to the newborn king. Babushka was a poor, hardworking woman who owned little, but she managed to gather several small toys, some sweets and tiny candles to take with her.

She walked to the door, tightly wrapped her coat and scarf around her to keep out the cold, and set off.

Babushka looked up at the sky, searching for the star that would lead her to the birthplace of the King of Kings. "Oh my," she said, for no matter where she looked, she could not find the star. She had washed and scrubbed and readied herself for a long time, and as she worked, the stars had moved across the sky.

Babushka tried one road. She walked for a while, but eventually she realized she must have taken the wrong turn. She tried a different road, and then another, and another, always searching the sky for the star the wise men had followed.

People say Babushka never did find the right road, and that she is wandering still. And every year, at Christmastime, the children run downstairs to search for the gifts Babushka has left for them as she travels the world, searching for the King of Kings. In every house where a small child lives, the people say, Babushka leaves a gift in honor of each and every child and Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was born on Christmas Day.

Adapted by Amy Friedman and illustrated by Jillian Gilliland

On the 1st Day of Advent, 2014...

For the past two years, I've been able to return home to England for Christmas. This year, my schedule doesn't not permit such a trip. There are many things I will miss, but on this first day of Advent, I share a picture of Winchester Cathedral, one of the first places I visit when I arrive in town, and where I always go on Christmas morning. There is a calm and tranquility about this ancient building that I find nowhere else on Earth. Whatever your religious beliefs, there's a peaceful spirit to be found here.

TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN by O. Henry

Most people have heard of O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi." Here is a lesser known O. Henry tale I've enjoyed sharing over the years. I've shortened it a bit for the telling, but it's worth reading to the end for the twist!

Stuffy Pete is homeless. Every Thanksgiving for the last nine years, he's been taken out for a holiday feast by an old gentleman. This year, before the old gentleman gets there, someone else feeds him a huge dinner. Then the old gentleman shows up.

TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN

There is one day that is truly American. There is one day when all true Americans go back home to eat. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gave it to all Americans. There is some talk of Puritans, but no one seems to remember quite who they were. The last Thursday in November is the one day that is purely American.

Now a story to prove that Americans have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older more rapidly than those in England-thanks to American spirit and enterprise.

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right at you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at one o’clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him, Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart and equally on the other side. 

But today Stuffy Pete’s appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.

Certainly Peter was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial rolls of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to this upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Peter was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baker potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Which is why he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.

The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red-brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth Avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on  his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.

For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth Avenue towards his bench.

Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of.  Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do that kind of thing in England unconsciously. But American is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us.

The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing.  Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Carta or marmalade for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to America.

The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won’t stay on our nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.

As his established benefactor came up, Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman’s over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of a sprinter couldn’t have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.

“Good morning,” said the Old Gentleman. “I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental.”

That is what the Old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music to Stuffy’s ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman’s face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He didn’t know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him, a son who would come there after he was gone, a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say, “In memory of my father…” Then it would be an institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey Hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a particular type of butterfly that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman’s occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman’s eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year but his little black necktie was as jaunty a bow as ever, and his linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled gracefully at the ends. Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was not intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy’s old formula of acceptance.

“Thankee, sir. I’ll go with ye, and much obliged. I’m very hungry, sir.”

The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy’s mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanks-giving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who had preempted it.

The Old Gentleman led his annual protégé southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized.

“Here comes the old guy,” said a waiter. “He buys that same bum a meal every Thanksgiving.”

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his cornerstone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food–and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger’s expression, raised knife and fork.

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman’s face–a happier look than even the fuchsias and the butterflies had ever brought to it–and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won.

“Thankee kindly, sir,” he puffed like a leady steam pipe; “thankee kindly for a hearty meal.”

Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sun-stricken horse.

When the ambulance came, the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman, and they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill. But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.

"That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."

A GRAND DAY OUT

On Thursday 8th March 1984, just ten days after I arrived in Libya, a group of AGIP secretaries enjoyed the pleasure of a day-trip to Sabratha to visit the ruins of an ancient Roman city of archeological interest (a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1982) about sixty kilometers to the west of our villa in Tripoli.

I have no memory of who arranged the excursion and to my knowledge, I never thanked anyone for their consideration.  It was probably Pietro Cavanna, the director of production and offshore development, whose secretary, Elizabeth (whom he called "Betty") was one of our party.  With the over-confidence of a middle-class westerner, or perhaps it was the innocent optimism of youth, I took for granted that this was to be the first of many day-trips I would be offered.  Betty, an easily flustered, highly strung Scotswoman who'd been in Tripoli for donkeys' years and was older and wiser than the rest of us (in her late fifties, I guessed) was quick to quash that idea. 

"I shouldn't build up your hopes, if I were you," she warned with what I attributed to simple Scottish pessimism, "we'll not be doing this often."

"Really?  Why not?"

"Och, so very difficult to get things organized," she answered. "It takes a lot of time and effort to get anything done here.  You wait and see."

"This is a treat," Jean chimed in.  "First time we've done anything like this since I've been here!"

"I was hoping to visit Leptis Magna.  I'm sure we can arrange a trip there," I declared with assurance, as if I had the slightest clue of what I was talking about.  

"Well, we'll see," Betty said.  A shake of the head and a wry smile.  She turned to gaze out of the window.  Since this kind of outing was the very thing I'd hoped to experience as "a world traveler" -- I had inherited a love of history from my mother and was a bit of a fanatic -- I was not to be convinced.  I didn't know then that Betty was right, that it was indeed a one-off, that life in Libya was going to change radically very soon afterwards and make such expeditions all but impossible.

The weather that day was awful, as it can be along the Mediterranean coastline in early spring; windy and cold, it rained all the way.  Looking out of the minibus windows, it was hard to distinguish even the outlines of the passing scenery, such as it was.  "Typical!" we cried, as English people always do on rainy outings to the seaside, "Just our luck!"  I was fairly sure that by putting my sunscreen in my bag, I had brought on the bad weather myself.  I so rarely used sunscreen that the very act of carrying it was like the kiss of death for potential sunshine.  In fact, it rained so hard that particular day, there were floods in and around Tripoli, turning the romantic Saharan sand into a thick, unromantic mud.  I wore jeans, two sweaters and a pea coat, and I kept my gloves on the whole time.  I wished I'd been less dismissive and brought wellington boots with me from England as had been suggested by Freddie Rothwell.  I'd poo-poo'd the idea as being ridiculous, "Wellington boots in the desert!  I've never heard of such a thing!"  I am a sad-and-sorry case for learning from experience.

However, in spite of the ghastly conditions, which did improve marginally as the day went on, these stoic British lady tourists -- Lindsay, Jean, Yvonne, Sally, Betty and I -- were determined to enjoy themselves.  I vividly recalled Sabratha being mentioned by one or two of the Latin prose writers I studied in the fifth form at Winchester County High School and was excited beyond measure to have those writings brought to life.  I was prepared  to be enthralled! 

There was a little museum at the main entrance.  We found on the counter one dog-eared copy of an old guide book that looked as if it was as ancient as the site itself.  Alas, it wasn't for Sabratha; it was for Leptis Magna and dated 1957 which was good in one way because, being pre-Gaddafi, there was an English translation for the Arabic text; but bad in another: there was nothing, not a dicky-bird, to tell us about the site we were actually visiting.

The museum was deserted, not a curator or tourist in sight.  Its displays were dismal, covered with dust, and impossible to follow because the labels were printed in Arabic.  Colonel G, in an effort to create a true Arab society, had requested, nay, demanded, that documents connected with Libyan culture, indeed all Libyan documents, be written only in Arabic with no translations into any other language.  This naturally added a level of difficulty to interactions between Libyan locals and expatriates. 

While we were not encouraged to learn Arabic -- actually, we were officially discouraged -- Libyans themselves, especially our office workers, seemed to appreciate our conversational efforts.  I learned how to say, “A salaam alaykum," a generic greeting which sounds like "Salama Lycoom” and means, "Peace be with you."  And “Good morning!” which is, "Sabah el kheer" (when I said it, it sounded like "Sabakeer!")  I learned "Ahlan!" which is "Hello!" and “Thank you!” which is, "Shokran" (sounds like “Shoocoran”) and "Marhaban!" meaning "Welcome!"  

Among the expatriate community, I was quickly taught "I.B.M.," a humorous acronym standing for “Insh’allah,” “Bucra,” and “Malesh.”  “Insh’allah” means “God willing,” “Bucra” means “tomorrow,” and “Malesh” means “Never mind!”  I.B.M. was a kind-of code for what was generally considered, tongue-in-cheek, the Libyan attitude to expatriates.  Whatever you wanted, you would get it “Insh’allah” -- if Allah were willing.  But you definitely wouldn’t get it today, come back "Bucra" -- tomorrow.  And when you’ve been back every day for a month and still haven’t got it, you may as well put it out of your mind because you’re not going to get it.  "Malesh!" -- Never mind! 

I guessed this was what Betty was talking about when she said, "It takes a lot of time and effort to get anything done here..."

Even in the cold, the wind and the showers of that grey day, the ruins at Sabratha were spectacular; but when, eventually, the rain ceased and the skies cleared briefly, we were blessed with the opportunity to see the incomparable beauty of the place.  Without wanting to sound corny, it took my breath away.  I had a distinct sensation of time passing and yet standing still, as if I were in the past and present simultaneously.  My mum called that feeling, "a sense of history," as if all eras of life could exist at the same time.  When I closed my eyes, I could imagine the town bustling, functioning, thriving.  I could picture chariots racing by; camels and caravans arriving from southern parts of Africa, their goods being unpacked for the locals; ships with striped sails heading north to Italy.  I had the sensation that I could almost reach out and touch the inhabitants of this fascinating town.  As I trod those antiquated stones, I "sensed the history," just as my mother described. 

I felt like I was a tiny speck of nothingness in the broad picture but a significant part of the moment.  "People have been walking on these stones for thousands of years," I thought, "I'm walking on them now.  I'm a living part of history."     

We found a line of latrines, a sort of public lavatory, which seemed to be the remaining ones of a ring of sit-down toilets (pictures on the internet suggest it might have been octagonal rather than circular but we had no such data at the time).  We supposed Sabrathans would sit on the various loos, read their newspapers, and chat about the day's events while having a poo.  Horrifying!  We were suitably entertained by this, giggling like silly schoolgirls, so I asked my friends to choose a toilet, sit herself down and I posed a photo which Betty was happy to take.  "Gosh, that would be a Nason nightmare, wouldn't it?" I wrote to my mother.  "No one in our family would never be able to 'go' again!"   

I should add at this point that, although the museum was deserted, the archeological site itself was anything but.  Oh, there were no tourists, no coach parties, no knowledgeable guides.  Presumably from the modern village of Sabratha, approximately one million young Libyan males, from small boys to grown men, tagged along as we wandered about.  Okay, okay, I'm exaggerating, the number was more like thirty but really, that's a lot of desperate males in one place at one time.  They pursued, pestered, and goaded us; if one got close enough...they pushed each other constantly...he'd whisper in a provocative way.  You would have thought we were aliens from another planet, and I supposed in some ways, we were, at least to them.  The aggression was overt though I doubt the youngsters were aware of how frightening it was for us.  They may have thought we'd be flattered; we weren't. 

If the dreadful weather had already put a damper on the day, these young men certainly drained any remaining enthusiasm.  By the time we made our way to the minibus, we were exhausted by the chase.  On the way home, the younger woman in the group discussed the "do" we were attending that evening, a "Sports Wear" party.  It was my first real social event (other than a darts evening) and I was looking forward to being a girl and meeting some boys who didn't think of me as an object of lechery and misplaced anger.  My fingers were firmly crossed.

I had hoped to be able to tell my mother "all about Sabratha" but I had no facts to pass along.  As a matter of fact, when I wrote to her the following week, telling her of our adventure, I closed it with, "You'll have to find out about Sabratha for me, rather than the other way round...I'd very much like to know more about Tripoli and the goings-on here, ancient and recent, so when you have a moment, perhaps you can do some research for me."

Secretaries on Latrines, Sabratha, Libya, 8 March 1984

On the 22nd Day of Advent...HOT CROSS NUN

Everyone was afraid of Sister Mary.  She was American and that was scary enough to an English child who'd never met an American before, and "Mayen, shay taweckd funny."  She wore the full black nun's habit with white around the face and a long black veil, like the nuns in The Sound of Music.  Her crucifix hung down in front of her like a weapon and when she walked...she always walked very fast as if she were genuinely "on a mission from God"...it would swing from side to side ready to swipe asunder any child who got in her way.  When I first watched The Blues Brothers and saw Sister Mary Stigmata (aka the Penguin), I knew on whom the character was based.

When I started school at age 4, school lunches were provided for one shilling, about 15 cents.  Today they cost 2 pounds, about $3.  We used to walk from St. Peter's Roman Catholic Primary School on Gordon Road, across North Walls, along St. Peter's Street to Milner Hall, then the Catholic social center but which had been the original boys' school, when the girls were taught by Benedictine nuns in what is now the very upscale Royal Hotel across the street.  In those days lunches were served from giant metal pots (I used to think of them as cauldrons) by dinner ladies who said things like, "Eat your cabbage; it'll make your hair curl" or "Don't leave anything on your plate; think of the starving children in Africa."  We always thought, "I hate curly hair," and "If the African children want it they can have it!"  Truly we complained bitterly about the quality of the food but looking back, the meals were actually pretty good: meat, potatoes and at least one vegetable, and always fish on Friday because as you know Jesus always had fish on Friday.  School puddings (or desserts, as you call them), could be nice except when dessicated coconut was glued on top with jam and as I hated coconut, I couldn't eat them.

A year or two later, a new hall and kitchens were added to the school building so we no longer had to walk to lunch.  By this time, Sister Mary had joined the school to teach the "first class" or PreK.   I was grateful to have missed her by one year.  She lived with the other nuns in the building next door to the presbytery where the priests lived.  These two buildings were sandwiched between Milner Hall and St. Peters Roman Catholic Church.  I don't know about "Servants of God" or "Brides of Christ"; it seemed to me, after doing all the cooking and cleaning, they were more like "charladies to the priests."    

Anyway, the traditional mealtime prayer of thanks was always said before we ate our food:

Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty,
through Christ, Our Lord.  Amen.

Although the headmaster, Mr. Bogan, Mr. Peter Paul not-just-one-saints-name-but-two Bogan sometimes said grace it eventually became Sister Mary's regular job.  She'd stand on the steps of the new hall, like a giant white-necked vulture.  She'd sign the cross then: "Bless us, Oh Lauwered," she say.  She could make "Lord" last for three syllables, i.e. "Bless us O Lauwered, " which I found hilarious and at which I would've snickered, if I hadn't been so completely terrified of her.

Every December, work would begin on the Christmas play which was usually some sort of nativity.  The only time I remember it not being so was when we did Amahl and the Night Thieves.  In my last year at primary school when I was ten years old, it was decided to do a different kind of nativity in which none of the children would have to learn lines because there would be a narrator who told the audience everything they needed to know while the kids acted it out alongside.  The narrator was the only one who was required to learn anything.

Now I have no recollection of how or why it happened but I was given the role as narrator.  I was delighted.  Even at the age of ten I was already considering a career on the stage.  I hadn't yet prepared my Oscar acceptance speech -- I did that the following year after seeing Barbra Streisand win the award for best lead actress -- but I was thinking about becoming an actor.  What a good start this would be!

The only downside of taking on this role was that Sister Mary was the director of the show which meant that she'd be at every rehearsal and would be telling me what to do.  Somehow, since the early days of my schooling, I had managed to avoid her ever-more frightening figure as it stormed down the main corridor of our tiny school.  Through hiding in doorways and scurrying about the playground, our paths had never crossed and so the performance in this play was to be my first real encounter with the terrors of Sister Mary.

To my horror, the narrator had a lot of lines.  Saying that would imply that I had some knowledge, at the tender age of ten, of how long it would take to learn a large number of lines...that is not so...I had no idea.  However, what I did know and could foresee was that there was ample opportunity here for Sister Mary to get on my case and be displeased with me.  She seemed to be in an almost constant state of displeasure.  I was sure that whatever I did, she would be displeased with me.  And more than anything in life, I lived in fear of people -- anyone at all -- being displeased with me.  The slightest criticism from anyone except my mother could reduce me to tears in a second and crying in public was another thing that frightened me.  A vicious cycle if ever there was one.

In the early stages of rehearsal, I stood at the side of the stage, reading the lines from the script, as Sister Mary moved the younger children around behind me.  The stage wasn't really a stage at all.  The hall (no longer new and now just called "the hall") had two long steps down the length of it which led to a wide corridor.  If you went left along the corridor, you'd get the back exit of the school.  If you went right, you'd reach the classrooms.  Thus, the top step was actually the corridor and became "the stage.  The two steps leading to it were the front and middle of the stage.     

Everything was going quite well.  Sister Mary wasn't really taking much notice of me and I just read my stuff while she rehearsed everyone else.  When I wasn't reading I'd stand and look at the pictures on the wall of the hall.  High up on the left, there was a large painting of the two fishes and the five loaves.  High up on the right, a picture of the crossed keys of St. Peter after whom the school was named.  At the end, taking up most of the width of the room, there was a huge colorful mural that I could stare at for hours and always see something new.  I'd be lost in thought when the sister would suddenly shout, "Now start reading again!" I would read:

"Christmas...Christmas...what is Christmas?  Just a time for fun, music and merry-making?  Just a time for..."  Unfortunately, that's all I have left in my head now, in spite of vigorous internet searches.  But it went on, as far as I can recall, that there was much more to Christmas than "fun, music, and merry-making" -- that it was a serious time and people all over the world were dying of starvation while we ate our festive dinners, and even more important than that was the birth of the baby Jesus.

At this point in my acting career, I can tell you that there is a method to learning lines.  Of course one hopes that lines will be learned during the rehearsal process, that the daily running of the lines while working with your fellow actors will instill them in your mind and the movement provided by one's director will also help fix them -- actors call this "muscle memory" -- if I walk over here then this is the line I say; if I pick up this cup, this is the line I say.  When all else fails, and most actors hate this, one has to repeat the lines over and over again at home, in the car, at the bank, in the supermarket line, at the gym, attracting unwelcome attention as passers-by think one has gone certifiably crazy. 

I did not know any of this when I was ten and clearly nor did Sister Mary.  At some point in the rehearsal process, she told me that I should know my lines by now and that I was to put down the script.  And this, my friends, is where the trouble really began.  I'd managed to avoid her focus until now but at this point, all her impatience at the younger students, all her frustrations at the fact the play was to be performed on Sunday afternoon and it was nowhere near ready, all her wrath at the sheer thanklessness of her task, came raining down on me.  I'd gone from being the quiet little girl innocently reading the story on one side of the stage to the object of all her hatred and bile.  At least, this is how it felt to me.

Now instead of being behind me moving around the little ones, she was in front of me, standing in the hall while I stood at the side of the stage, and screaming at me, "Move over there!" and "Sit on the step there!" and "Put that script down!"  There I was, abandoned in the middle of the stage with the two fishes and five loaves on one side; the crossed keys on the other; and right in the middle, a very hot, cross nun. 

I was afraid to tell my mother about all this because it seemed to me quite wrong to tell tales about a nun, and anyway, in those days parents tended to think teachers were right, whatever the circumstances.  It's different these days.  Parents don't seem to support teachers the way they did when I was at school.  I had no reason to think my mother would believe me if I told her that Sister Mary wasn't being very nice to me.  I wouldn't have been at all surprised if my mother said, in response to such an accusation: "Well, dear, I'm sure you deserved it...".  

So now I lived in terror all day during class that at the end of the day I would again be the victim of Sister Mary's anger.  I seemed unable to learn the lines.  Naturally I know now that stark terror can shake the simplest words from one's mouth.  But I didn't know that then and the more she shouted at me, the more difficult it became for me to say a word.  Even reading was tough.  And of course all I wanted to do was burst into tears and ask her why she was being so mean; what had I ever done to her?  Couldn't she see I was desperate to please and trying my best?

It all came to a head on Friday afternoon, at our last school-day rehearsal before the Sunday show.  There was to be a final dress rehearsal on Saturday but Friday was the last official run-through.  I had a costume now, a beautiful, full-length cream-colored satin dress.  It was gorgeous...but I couldn't appreciate it because I was in such a state.  My long hair was pulled back off my face in a high, tight pony-tale at the back of my head.

Sister Mary had given me some basic blocking: move across the stage on this line, point to the manger on this, etc. I still didn't know my lines and was stumbling all over the place and making stuff up.  In the theatre world, we call this improvisation but in the land of Catholic nativity plays, it's apparently known as disobedience.

I was supposed to say a particular line then cross the stage to the other side.  But I didn't.  I don't know if I said the line incorrectly or my muscle memory didn't click in or I was so utterly petrified that I was rooted to the spot, but I didn't move when I was supposed to.  Sister Mary stomped up the steps, grabbed hold of my pony tail and dragged me across the stage to where I was supposed to be. 

My pony tail had been quite tightly gathered so it was already rather uncomfortable.  Add to that the fact that it had been up like that for several hours and -- I think the ladies will back me up here -- the skin around it tends to start aching after a while.  And then the sister had twisted my hair in her hand to pull me.  All this combined meant that it really hurt.  But the real hurt I felt was at being so wronged.  What had I ever done to this woman?  Why did she hate me?  I'd tried my best and it wasn't good enough.  I was a failure.

Oh, the pain of trying not to cry, not to let her see how much she'd hurt me.  As soon as I was released and started the walk home, I started to cry.  I always thought nuns were supposed to be sweet and kindly.  I sobbed all the way. 

My mother was having a bath when I got home.  It was my usual habit to go into the bathroom and sit on the down-turned toilet seat to tell her about my day but I didn't want to do that because she'd see I'd been crying and she'd make me tell her why.  But she called out to me to join her and I couldn't say no.  I cleared up face, put on a smile and sat down.  But you know what it's like when you've been crying, particularly as a kid, it only takes one kind word to set you off again and my mother noticed my red eyes immediately and asked what was wrong.  I didn't want to tell her, felt terrible about telling on Sister Mary but I had to tell someone and who else by my beloved mum.  So I told her, without much detail, that Sister Mary was angry I hadn't learned my lines and pulled my hair.  I didn't have to say another word.

No one could've been more surprised than I when my mother stood up in the bath, quite naked of course because, well, that's how one takes a bath, and said, "Let me put on some clothes.  We're going down the school!"  You would have to know my mother to know how out of character this was.  She was a sweet, peace-loving, mild-mannered woman who hated arguments or confrontations of any kind.  To this day, my siblings and I have issues with expressing anger or standing up for ourselves -- my therapist and I have worked through some of mine -- but you've got to understand, I had never, ever seen this side of my mother before. 

In a matter of moments, she was dressed and we were walking back to St. Peter's RC Primary.  I use the term "walking" loosely -- she ploughed through passers-by on the street.  If my mother had been wearing a crucifix on a chain like Sister Mary, she'd have knocked people into the oncoming traffic with it.  She held my hand in a knuckle-cracking grip.  I was scared all over again.  I felt sick to my stomach; my heart was pounding.  What if Sister Mary denied it, said I'd made it up?  If she could torture a little girl, she could certainly lie about her.

We went through the front entrance of the school, and I'm necessarily vague about the next bit as I think I've blocked it from my memory.  If this were a movie, we would storm down the corridor straight to the headmaster's office.  But I think we stopped at the first room in the building which was Sister Mary's room.  I'd like to tell you that I heard my mother say, "If you ever touch my daughter again, I'll have your guts for garters" because that was one of her favorite sayings but I can't because I don't remember if she went in and partially closed the door leaving me outside or if she went in holding my hand.  I think she said something like, "I hear from Bernadette that you pulled her hair and if you ever do something like that again, (I'll have your guts for garters) there will be repercussions."  All of this is vague, I can't be sure and I don't want to lie to you. 

So let me tell you instead the results of my mother's actions.  I dreaded the next day's final dress rehearsal but when I arrived at school, Sister Mary was all smiles, a totally unfamiliar sight.  Not a word was said about meeting my mother.  I was dressed in my lovely angelic outfit and was allowed to read my script while standing on the left of the stage.  I waited for the sister to tell me to move but no instructions came.  Lights were set up; music was added.  The whole rehearsal went like clockwork and not one single voice was raised in anything other than Christmas song.

The actual performance was spectacular, like a magical dream.  A full house of happy parents watching their adorable children on stage; glorious Christmas music and a rather surprised ten year-old narrator.  I was given a fresh script which made my many lines much clearer for me to read.  But you know what?  I didn't need it!  I mean, it was a great comfort having it in my hand like an angel reading from a divine scroll but I discovered that, once the bullying was over, I really did know the lines.

I've met other nuns since then and they've always been exactly as I envisioned as a child: sweet and kind.  I found out as an adult that Sister Mary's order of nuns chose a path for each sister to follow and the path chosen was the one they least wanted to take.  If a nun didn't like something, she was going to deal with it by confronting it.  Sister Mary's most despised thing in the whole wide world was children, she LOATHED them.  Thus her path was to spend time with children for as long as it took to defeat that demon.  And all I have to say to that is...well, thanks a bunch!

On the Fourteenth Day of Advent...COVENTRY CAROL

Although I grew up with the Coventry Carol, hearing it sung most Decembers by the Winchester Cathedral Choir or at the Mayor's Advent Carol Concert, I didn't sing it myself until the State Theatre's A CHRISTMAS CAROL in 2005.  And I didn't discover its origin until relatively recently.  I found its history extremely interesting so I thought I'd share it.  There are more versions available on youtube than I imagined but I've chosen the one closest to how I remember it as a child.  

Thanks to Wikipedia for the following encapsulation:

The "Coventry Carol" is a Christmas carol dating from the 16th century. The carol was performed in Coventry in England as part of a mystery play called The Pageant of the Shearman and Tailors.  The play depicts the Christmas story from chapter two in the Gospel of Matthew. The carol refers to the Massacre of the Innocents, in which Herod ordered all male infants under the age of two in Bethlehem to be killed. The lyrics of this haunting carol represent a mother's lament for her doomed child. It is the only carol that has survived from this play.

It is notable as a well-known example of a Picardy third (a harmonic device used in Western classical music, referring to the use of a major chord at the end of a musical section that is either modal or in a minor key.)  The author is unknown. The oldest known text was written down by Robert Croo in 1534, and the oldest known printing of the melody dates from 1591. The carol is traditionally sung a cappella. There is an alternative setting of the carol by Kenneth Leighton; another by Phillip Stopford.

The only manuscript copy to have survived into recent times was burnt in 1875. Our knowledge of the lyrics is therefore based on two very poor quality transcriptions from the early nineteenth century, and there is considerable doubt about many of the words. Some of the transcribed words are difficult to make sense of: for example, in the last verse "And ever morne and may For thi parting Neither say nor singe" is not clear. Various modern editors have made different attempts to make sense of the words, so such variations may be found as "ever mourn and say", "every morn and day", "ever mourn and sigh". The following is one attempted reconstruction.

Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,

Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

Lullay, thou little tiny Child,

Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

O sisters too, how may we do,

For to preserve this day

This poor youngling for whom we do sing

Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

Herod, the king, in his raging,

Charged he hath this day

His men of might, in his own sight,

All young children to slay.

That woe is me, poor Child for Thee!

And ever mourn and sigh,

For thy parting neither say nor sing,

Bye, bye, lully, lullay.