Do you remember...?

Well of course I remember. I was eighteen, for God’s sake. Impressionable, emotional, in love with too many people to enumerate - including the President of the United States. John F. Kennedy was everything our politicians weren’t - think of the ancient Harold McMillan, his successor Alec Douglas-Home and before them Eden and the antique Churchill. Ok, the forty-something Harold Wilson had just won an election, but with his Gannex and his pipe and his portly waistcoat he was never an icon and seemed never to have been young. So yes, I remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard Kennedy had been shot, that strange dark November evening and the weekend that followed it.

It was a Friday, so whatever the dates fall on it will always be Friday in my memory. I was late home from school - orchestra practice ran till after 5pm on Friday evenings, and then we had to get a bus home - and my sister and I had our evening meal alone as our parents prepared to go out for the evening. Strange, that - they so rarely went out on the razzle. We had no television - my father thought, probably rightly, that we’d never do any homework again if we had one. It was our habit of a Friday evening to walk round to our grandmother’s house to spend the evening watching Russ Conway and other shows (our grandmother was strangely engaged by boxing matches) and eating cakes at suppertime. It was dark, of course, and the streets were quiet as we made the 10 minute walk.

I remember my aunt coming to the door and telling us the telly was off. Something had happened, and there would be no Russ Conway show that evening. Sure enough, there it was - the globe turning on its black background. There may have been music - that I don’t recall. Some time after our arrival, the news came on, accompanied by the by now familiar scratchy images of the motorcade, of Jackie Kennedy apparently trying to climb out of the car, of the agent leaping up behind her. Were they trying to hold hands? It was all very confusing and no-one was telling us more than we could see. The dislocation of time and weather - it was one of these made-for-tragedy sunny days in Texas - made it seem unreal, or at least removed in the way old war footage was.

I kept a daily diary in these days. Hell mend it, I still do. But when I looked it up the other day, I could see only the bald fact, recorded almost as an afterthought on a busy and self-absorbed Friday. (I know now, with hindsight, that I am incapable of recording the big life-events in anything other than the baldest of prose in my diary - the poetry comes later, when feeling becomes possible). “President Kennedy of the US was assassinated about 7pm our time in Dallas, Texas. He was shot through the head and died 3/4 hour later”. The next day’s diary records that I couldn’t stop thinking about it - “it’s terrible”. But then I went to see “From Russia with Love” and cheered up, apparently.

In a way, I was more reflective after the absurd - for it seemed absurd even then - shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby. I think I perhaps saw that live on TV (another visit to Grandmother; she must have wondered what hit her). I recorded that there was speculation that Oswald had actually been shooting at “the other man in the car” (Governor John Connally) - haven’t heard that one since. By the time we reached Monday morning, I had worked myself into such a state of generalised angst that I felt like throwing up and didn’t go out to school until halfway through the morning - the images from the papers, Jackie Kennedy in what at that time I thought of as a grey skirt splattered in black blood, the knowledge that the funeral would follow later that day (why on earth was it so soon?) - all these had an impact that I wonder at now, when we expect movie-quality disasters on tap, immediately.

Looking back, I realise that the events of that day remained monochrome and censored for a long time. It was years later that we saw bits of the Zapruder tape, and later still that horrific moment when Kennedy’s head exploded in a pink cloud. The theories multiplied and became as much of the history as the event itself, and the world moved on and Bobby Kennedy was shot and Gerald Ford was shot at and so was Ronald Reagan and Pope John Paul and the twin towers fell and I grew older and less impressionable. Maybe.  

But when they ask that question - Do you remember what you were doing when Kennedy was shot? - I can relive it in a flash. Oh yes. I remember.

Benediction?

I've read several blog posts - like this one - where the concluding benediction at yesterday's inauguration is discussed. I was interested in the bit near the end, the bit where all colours of humanity were covered:

Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get back, when brown can stick around -- (laughter) -- when yellow will be mellow -- (laughter) -- when the red man can get ahead, man -- (laughter) -- and when white will embrace what is right.

And the question which interested me was about how white activists for racial equality might feel about it, for I know some such people. So I asked my friends, and the answer came back. Yes, they felt "pissed" (in the American sense, ie not drunk, but fed up); they felt it was "inappropriate". The thing is, I don't think I can comment, because I have never had to stick my neck out in this particular battle, have never suffered for it. But the very fact that it is white people who have made the running for so long must give us pause for thought. It's a hard one. Real equality is not so easily achieved - for does that not mean that none of us will even notice our differences?

Obama: a personal take

No, I didn't stay up all night. So when someone asks me where I was when Barack Obama was elected, I shall have to admit I was asleep in bed. But this morning it was my waking thought, the first thing I checked before I went off to swim before breakfast. And yes, there was a lightness about this morning, and yes, I shed a tear when I watched his acceptance speech, courtesy of Guardian Unlimited, whose excellent front page I captured (for various reasons) and show above.

I think especially today of the visit I made a couple of years ago to the Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham, Alabama, and the impact the historic displays and videos had on me in that setting. I think of my friend Ed, who had so much to do with that museum, and the efforts he and Ruth have made over the years to fight bigotry and racism in that part of America. I hope they are rejoicing tonight for prayers answered and hopes realised. And I tip my hat to Joe in Bessemer, who has never faltered in his online support for his new President. Birmingham and Bessemer: two places that few Brits visit, made real by friendship both personal and through the internet.

Here's to you, over there, and to all Americans who rejoice tonight, and here's to some change we can all believe in.

Falling

I've just been watching an hour or so of The Falling Man - the story of one photograph taken on 9/11, chosen by one newspaper to represent the horror of the attack on the World Trade Center and then, strangely, disappearing. This image of one man who had jumped from a window high in the tower to avoid the unspeakable horrors of fire and smoke was remarkable in that in this one of many frames taken of his descent he appeared composed and - to quote the film - "almost zen-like". It was replaced in the media by more obviously heroic images of firefighters and rescuers toiling in the wreckage, and America seemed to turn away from the knowledge that people had chosen to jump from the buildings.

I find this very strange. I think there are big bits of the American psyche I don't get, to do with the flag and invincibility and emotional reactions and self-image as a nation. But admitting vulnerability might make a difference in all sorts of ways.

Roundup

So that’s it, then. Another huge experience, one I’m enjoying in retrospect almost as much as I did at the time. Interestingly – for me at least – the things that come out in general chat are frequently absurd; the features of American life which you suddenly realise are features and not just accidents.

Some of these occurred in the bathroom – that lovely generic term which, in the US, does not necessarily imply total immersion. The shower curtains, for a start – everywhere we went, in hotels and in private houses, there were over-bath showers regulated by a single tap (though the degree to which you had to turn them to reach the good temperature varied alarmingly) and shielded from view by a double curtain – one plastic job to keep the wet in, and another, outer, more decorative one to match the décor. It seemed to be the done thing to keep this curtain closed even if you were not actually showering, thus concealing the bath – and making the bathroom seem small, somehow. For the shower fusspots, among whom I number myself, I have to report that a shower curtain is still a shower curtain and sticks to your wet body no matter how decorous. Give me a freestanding shower any day – nae curtains. Then there’s the toilet paper. It’s single ply and small. ‘Nuff said. And the taps – no turny ones wherever I went. All levers – and as far as I was concerned, the wrong way round.

Other difficulties concerned food – or rather, my inability to cope with the quantities. Ask for a sandwich and you get enough to feed a small family. With fries. And in the South, there is much frying in cornmeal batter and very powerful seasoning – and a dearth of the kind of coffee my soul craves. We learned, eventually, to eat a decent breakfast and then fast till dinnertime.

When we first hit San Francisco, and headed out for that wonderfully serendipitous meeting with felow-edublogger Anne, we were incredibly intimidated by the skyscrapers in the Financial District. We didn't know that's where we were - all we knew was that if we beetled down Market Street for long enough we should find the Hyatt Regency. And we did - a hotel which I found quite intimidating in its own right, like a Borg ship, for the cognoscenti among my readers. I knew it was all because we'd just come from low-rise, laid-back Santa Cruz, but it did make me wonder how I was going to cope with New York. In the event, I loved New York and by the time I'd had the evening with Anne I was no longer intimidated.

We realised that many Americans are distraught at their unpopularity in the world. We spoke to a concierge in one hotel who told us earnestly that Americans were friendly people who wanted to be liked – but we also realised why it is so easy for Americans to forget that the rest of the world exists, let along has opinions. The news progs we saw on the telly made little reference to anything other than domestic issues – apart from Iraq. And the adverts! So many, and so bizarre – do they not have an advertising standards agency over there? My fave was definitely the one extolling a pill to cure belly fat. “Stubborn” belly fat, actually, in the over-30s. Watch enough of that stuff and you’d be a hypochondriac without trying – or maybe dead: there were some dire warnings about adverse effects.

A last thought, however, has to be to wonder once more at the vastness and diversity of the States, and at the kindness and hospitality of our friends – friends who made our trip possible, and gave us the experiences that the ordinary tourist never finds. We are eternally grateful to them.

Doubtless I shall refer to this trip again, but for now - I’m done.

Cardinals, Bishops and buzzards

Another wonderfully sunny day in Williamsburg - temperatures hovering just above freezing under blue sky. We've been taking a look at Colonial Williamsburg, though as it was so beautiful we preferred to stay out of doors as opposed to seeing films. (We hope we'll catch an appropriate movie later on Pete's magic telly ...) Anyway, I'm back to photoless blogging, not because I haven't taken any but because it's such a fuss without Flickr uploader and with so many photos to browse among. I've given the link above to show some of what we're up to.

By an extraordinary coincidence I discovered yesterday that Bishop Bruce (former Primus of SEC) is staying in Williamsburg. The greeters in the old (1715) Episcopal Church here seemed amazed that I knew him - but I had to point out that Scotland is a small country and the Piskies are a small minority. Churches here are much bigger affairs - and I learned today that while the Episcopal Church may be benefitting from early investment in U-Tube, other churches like the Community Church we shall attend tomorrow rely on giving. Wow.

Today we saw a red Cardinal (not a cleric) and a gang of turkey buzzards. The sun is slanting low over Governer's Land and dinner smells amazing. Time to leave the solitary pursuit of blogging and socialise again. It's a hard life .....

Onward and Eastward

Blogging from Williamsburg, Virginia, I'm feeling a touch of the Evita syndrome again - another suitcase in another hall - as I look out at trees and a frozen lake instead of the bustle of Union Square, San Francisco (pictured). California remained mild and sunny until Tuesday; they desperately need the rain that began on Wednesday afternoon so I won't begrudge them. At the moment I'm so stuffed with memories that they won't download, so I'll just go with the moment and catch up when I'm home.

The vastness of the country continues to amaze - and the realisation yesterday as we flew from SF to Atlanta and then on to here that we'd covered in a day what it took the first settlers months - or was it years? - to accomplish. And as we approached Newport News Airport we could see the line of the Atlantic coast and the darkness of the river and the inlets of this complicated area and thought of the colonial era, and the Civil War, and Independence ... and were so pleased to see our old friends Peter and Marcia waiting in the airport, and to feel instantly at home. Apparently the Queen and assorted Royals are to be here in May for the 400th anniversary of this settlement - but we're here ahead of them.

I've put a few photos on Flickr, taken on my phone. Most of the camera pix are on a card hidden in the depths of my luggage and will have to wait till I have my own set-up to deal with them. Today we're off to look at Colonial Williamsburg and to buy our train tickets for Monday. The sun is shining, the lake is frozen and there are squirrels in the trees. Mr B is playing on one of two grand pianos and I'm playing on Marcia's new iMac. What more could a body ask for?

San Francisco hookup

Well. I'm at it again - meeting cyber friends in meat-space! And as you'll see from the pic, it's the greatest fun. In this case, we're meeting Anne in San Francisco, in one of these strange flukes of fate that seem to accompany Ewan's activities, as it was he who worked out that we'd coincide here. We've just had a great dinner virtually under the end of the Golden Gate bridge, talked blogging and education at the top of our voices as if we'd known each other for years, and have retreated to Anne's hotel room so's I can use her computer. In the St Francis, where we are just now, you pay if you breathe, I think, so I'll not be experimenting.

Yesterday we visited the Big Sur coast - so the contrast between the wide open spaces and the crashing Pacific and this incredible city is enough to make us feel like hicks. Maybe when it's daylight ....Anyway, we had a look round an old Spanish Mission in Carmel on our way home, and I suffered an intense feeling of geographical dislocation: I forgot what continent I was in and started thinking Europe. Must've been the olive trees. My main preoccupation was the ocean - we walked on the beach at Carmel in the dusk, and the sight of the waves - 8-10 feet high - first distorting and then obliterating the horizon, then surging towards us before breaking and crashing on the beach, had me mesmerised. There were surfers out there in the gloaming, and a lone sandpiper wandering in the shallows in front of me.

Won't be blogging again unless I can find a freebie in our next hotel; after that I may persuade my friends at my next stop to allow me computer time. In the meantime, it's a big thank you to Anne for the use of her laptop and for a great dinner. What an advert for the blogosphere!