Note from The Editor

The fact that this weeks issue is a week late is a fine tribute to this week’s theme: Differences.

The differences between where I used to live and where I live now are huge and yet the longer I live here the less I notice them, until that is, something like a tree falling in the forest and knocking out the power and internet connection to the whole village happens.

My first reaction was one of horror. Whilst everyone else around me merely sighed, shrugged and changed their plans for the day, I was outraged.

“What do you mean the power won’t be back on until the evening? Don’t you realise I have things I need to be doing?!” Hours later, when the electricity came back on but the internet connection was still not working, I was even more outraged. Somehow being able to turn on the computer and not be able to use the internet was infinitely worse than not being able to turn it on at all.

After an hour of pacing around the house, sighing deeply, clicking the firefox icon, sighing, closing it and continuing pacing,

pace,
sigh,
click click,
sigh,
click,
sigh,
pace;

I had finally driven The Farmer nuts and I could tell from the look in his eye that I was in trouble.

When he yelled through the window for me to come outside I did so grudgingly, dragging my feet like a sulking school girl. He gave me a pair of wellies, a couple of buckets and sent me off to the bottom of the garden with strict instructions not to come back into the house until they were both full.

Four hours later I staggered home; back aching, arms bleeding, red sticky fingers clutching full buckets of strawberries and a deep sense of peace and tranquillity radiating from within.

Bemoaning the differences between here and there is all very well, but one must not forget that differences can also be good.

When the internet failed to work the next morning I simply shrugged and changed my plans and when it finally came back on line yesterday, after a week of berry picking, jam making and other rural housewife type activities the feeling was a strange mix of joy and disappointment.


Our Editor, The Farmers wife, can also be found at her blog Running in Wellies.

Two Nations

Feature Post
by Around My kitchen Table

I'm a Brit so I know I'm treading on dodgy ground when I start talking about sport. The Aussies whip our asses regularly in rugby, the Kiwis whip our asses regularly in cricket, and the whole of the world whips our asses regularly in tennis, athletics and, our supposedly national game, football.

We don't mind too much; we have a culture which glorifies the "gallant loser" -

and we've had plenty of practice in that fixed "no, no it's perfectly OK that you've beaten our team (combined worth £300-million) 7-0, you part-time team of taxi drivers and plumbers" look.

For my American readers, by football I mean soccer. My friends across the pond, I understand, tend to think that soccer is a game for cissies, girls and little people under the age of 11.
Half a dozen of you may have heard of Pele and one or two of you may have heard of David Beckham, but only because he's the other half of a Spice Girl and is the new best friend of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

So forget about America and Britain being two nations divided by a common language (to coin a phrase from George Bernard Shaw), we are two nations divided by the shape of our balls. Yours are oval and ours are round.

Americans are under the misapprehension that there is only one type of football game which, as far as I have been able to ascertain, involves lots of men dressed in duvets, running around like rutting stags on speed trying to beat the crap out of each other. British football is based on the ability of over-paid prima donnas being able to fool a referee by falling over and feigning imminent death if an opposing player so much as looks at them funny.

Both games have their world cups. The "proper" World Cup involves teams from all over the world (the clue is in the name) - from Bolivia to Bulgaria, Nigeria to Norway and Ireland to Italy. The American World Cup, on the other hand, involves teams from, well, America. So, novel use of the word "world" there, guys.

America usually qualifies for the Proper World Cup and next time round (South Africa, 2010) I wish them the best of luck. Because when America starts doing really well on the world stage (rather than the 'my backyard' stage), maybe they will become as passionate as the rest of the world about this most beautiful of beautiful games.

This isn't what I was expecting

by The Expectant Father

Oh fatherhood. It has finally arrived and how sweet and wondrous it is but...

“Waaaaaaahhhhh!!”.

Excuse me, I just have to go and see to a small, yet very loud, baby for the 50th time this morning.

Where was I? Oh yes, fatherhood, how sweet and wondrous it is but...

Whoops, someone's just been sick in their Moses basket. I'll just mop that up...

So, fatherhood sweet and wondrous it is but...

Blimey, what's that smell?

Oh dear, I only changed you 5 minutes ago. There's another dirty nappy in the eye for the environment.

Let me start again; fatherhood, is it what I expected?

I'll take you back 3 weeks, just before the tornado that is my son hit our lives with it's full force.

My wife and I were itching to finally become parents. Mrs C just wanted to not be punched and kicked from the inside any more. I wanted to start our new lives as a family. I'd spent the last 9 months thinking of us as a modern, scaled down version of the Waltons - so happy in our mountain homestead.

Yes, as the Expectant Father during pregnancy I had some very preconceived ideas about what fatherhood would be like. In quiet moments I would picture all the good times we'd have; the laughing, the playing, the cheeky grins after he's locked his Nana in the cellar.

Now, I'm not an idiot, I knew there would be hard times and some tears. I'll obviously have to tell him off every now and then - discipline is important - but I'd explain to him why he'd done wrong (“Nana's very old and she's afraid of the dark” etc.), he'd apologise and promise never to do it again. We'd hug as some heart warming and ever so slightly sentimental music plays in the background.

But mostly I focused on the good stuff.

I could see us at our first football match together and the pride I would feel as I watched him pull on his Everton shirt for the first time - “That's my boy” I'd think.

I could see him on stage as the Artful Dodger in his school play. Me wiping a tear away as he sings “I'd do anything” to the girl he's got his eye on from the lower-6th.

I could imagine my heart being wrenched from my chest as I drop him off for his first term at University (probably Oxford or Cambridge my dreams aren't too fussy) and the immense pride and satisfaction as I watch him collect his degree.

I think it's fair to say that I'd got great expectations for Peter's life.

Now, that Peter is nearly 3 weeks old, those expectations are all but out of the window. After the initial rush of excitement at being a new father (and at all the associated gifts and cards) I'm now firmly into the slog of parenting. In fact, it's such a slog at the moment that I don't have time for expectations. I'm too busy living in the real world.

Too busy putting dummy's in mouths.
Too busy cleaning up sick.
Too busy changing nappies.

And what I've discovered is that it was easy being an expectant father; being a real father is a different kettle of fish altogether. It's hard work and currently without much reward. I've discovered that newborn babies like to take but they don't really give much.

So now, when Peter does reward us with 5 minutes peace and quiet, when I can dream about those expectations, I' dream about my beautiful son giving me a smile for the first time.

Of Differences and Similarities

by Keta K from Storybook

We differentiate ourSelves from others.
In ways arbitrary or concrete?

Two centuries ago it was simple:
deliniated by the rules of Society.

If one was African, or Irish
Catholic. Protestant. Or pagan.
If one spoke English, or something European.
Or not. Therefore heathen.

If heathen then exploitable,
and worthless.
In fact land itself carried more value,
than the humans working it.


If not Catholic, or worse Protestant,
deemed to have 'no God'
therefore expendable. Thus there being
no crime in using a person

for economic gain.

And today?

With no royalty, no noble class
the lines are blurred.
But for the weathly,
remain
firmly in place nonetheless.

Muted criteria and arbitrary
seperation
between 'Us' and 'Them'.
Those that have nothing,
but work for all.
And those that have all,
but work only for themselves.

We are all participants
even if not Wealthy.
By virtue of living in the
First World
and having easy access

to products of the labour
of the Very Very Poor.

Oh but it's so nice!
After a hard day's work in the city,
to have some good Chocolate
a nice Coffee
with Sugar.
In the morning
perhaps a Banana.

but a pittance from our wallet,
it costs a lifetime of work
from Some Faceless Soul
we will never see
or know.

Much less care about.

Were we to pay the true value
for these items
we consider ordinary;
those living below the equator
in the Southern Hemisphere

would not be so different,
after all
from We
ourSelves.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Keta Kosman is Editor and Production Manager of Madison's Canadian Lumber Directory, in North Vancouver BC, Canada. When not mired down with the intricate workings of the North American lumber industry, she escapes to the beach to capture images of wild bald eagles in their daily lives.

Not Me…I’m Different

by The Pawhealer

It seems to me that I am always defending my many personal differences to my friends...You see, I choose to hang out with my dog family rather than do almost anything else; and I like it that way. I guess it could be said that I am quirky, or that I could be described as somewhat "different".

Take for example the telephone conversation I had today with my friend Rebecca. First of all, she is four years older than I am, that's just enough of an age difference, so that we quite don't see things eye to eye.....Here we go:

Rebecca: "Hi Holly"

Me: "Hey Rebecca what’s going on?"

Rebecca: "Oh.... I just read your blog today" (silence)

Me: "Yea and..."

Me: "How did ya like it?"

Rebecca: "Well.....It seems like this blog thing ( not said in a complimentary tone) is a really good form of therapy for you. (silence)"

Me: (Oh brother, obviously she doesn't get it, my blogs are supposed to be clever and witty.) "Rebecca, there's all types of posts on my blog, not just the one about my mother (referring to to my blog called "Mama's Little Girl") There are all kinds of posts about my dogs and other fun stuff, have ya read em?"

Rebecca: "Yes, and I have to tell you that I'm really worried about you." (Her words are long and drawn out, as she speaks with her high pitched nasal twanged voice that always seems to annoy me.)

Me: "What are ya talking about? Why are you worried about me?"

Rebecca: "Because you don't seem at all interested in getting a man."

Me: "Rebecca, we've gone over this before, I don't feel like I need a guy. I am perfectly happy hanging out with my dogs, I love my life, it’s uncomplicated and I don't feel at all lonely. Let's do a reality check here....Lets see; I've had twenty two years of marriage, and then there was that five years of a long term relationship; Rebecca, I think I'm okay in this department; Been there and done that...."

Now the subject takes a different direction as we begin to start talking about my mother. The conversation went something like this:

"Geez, my mom is doing terrible...Her back is in really bad condition, 'cause she's now completely bent over in the shape of an L, and when she walks, she is shuffling like a little old lady."

I go onto to say:

"It’s terrible to watch your mother get old....and its even worse because she won't interact with anyone including her own family. She just stays in her house, never goes out anywhere, with only her dog for company, and she likes it that way..."

Then with an air of confidence and bravado as if I have a crystal ball looking into the future, I staunchly say;

"I'll never be like that"

Rebecca then gleefully jumps back into the conversation as if this is some kinda "Ahh Haa" gotcha type of moment; Voice cackling and with authority she says to me;

"Holly, don't you see? You're just like your mother!"

Ohh; I was utterly and totally offended at this observation! I of course then responded by offering a complete denial of the statement and then I said;

"Come on Rebecca, I am completely different from my mom, as I self righteously defended myself against such an awful allegation, the wind then began to slowly seep out of my sails."

As I was making the case that my own special dog loving ways, as well as my own particular anti-social tendencies, are indeed a much different baliwick than my mom's odd behavior; I began to notice, that my own argument did indeed seem to sound somewhat hollow; It was at that moment that a most disturbing thought dared to pass through my mind:

Wait a minute, could it be that just maybe; I'm really not so different after all?

Because when I think about it; I do sound a tad bit like my mother...

Plus I can't forget the fact (because I could hear my father's voice of the past, which was reverberating in the back of my head):

"You are your mother's daughter":

Then could it possibly really be?

That I'm really not so different after all,

Have I now become my mother?

Blog Review: The Life and Times of Gran

The Blog: The Life and Times of Gran

The reviewer: Sarah from In The Trenches of Mommyhood

My latest assignment from TopBlogMag: to review a blog entitled “The Life and Times of Gran.” Great, I thought. It’s probably going to be something akin to what my own mother would write if she had a blog!

First Impression: My first impression was *yawwwwwwwwwn*. Not to be mean, but pics of the grandkids’ new school clothes (not even on the children) just didn’t lure me in. And right away my inner Grammar Police noticed an error with the word “brightens” on the right hand side introduction, although Gran warns that “this blog is far from perfection by the educational standards of writing.” She’s right.

Design: The blog is a basic Blogger template. The sparkly “Hello” in the corner is kind of distracting. Not a lot of originality here.

Content: What content? This is mostly a picture blog. There are a lot of “Photo Hunters” entries (whatever that is). Once in a while Gran gets reflective and philosophical, but those entries are few and far between.

Best and Worst:
Best: Gran definitely loves her children and grandchildren. This is evident in her writing. And I applaud her for taking the leap and starting her very own blog for “e-journaling randomly” (her words).
Worst: I’m thinking that this blog would only be interesting to the people in Gran’s life who actually know her.

Blogroll-worthy? This blog isn’t riveting by any means, so no, I wouldn’t add it to my own blogroll. But I’m sure Gran’s family loves to read it!

Rating Out of 10:
Gran is a Christian woman who loves God, her life and her family. This blog is definitely a reflection of that.

Immigrants R Us

by Emma Kaufmann fromMommy Has A Headache,










Irish Immigrants arriving in the USA 1902

My husband has been out of town for the last week, and
before he left, he bunged me a load of cash, said au
revoir and left me to fend for myself. I don't mean to
imply that I am one of those followers of that weird
cult book, The Surrendered Wife, which claims that
if a woman submits to her husband's will, her
marriage will be as fragrant as a basket of freshly
baked muffins. I just, oh God, this
is hard to say... I just don't carry credit cards,
because I am not safe with them. Giving me
credit cards would basically be like asking me to fly
a plane. Re the plane, don't be surprised if it
crashes and burns, and re the credit cards, don't be
surprised if I order a lot of lingerie, books and
expensive shampoos over the Internet. So, since I'm
not yet working (no green card), my husband doles me
out a certain amount of cash per week, and when I have
spent that, that is that. Additionally, he always goes
out and puts gas in my car, in essence, making him
more of a surrendered husband than me a surrendered
wife.

So basically, I had not put gas into my car by myself
for two years (please bear in mind that I've
only been driving for four years total). And so
yesterday, there I was, making a valiant attempt to
fill up my car, but however much I manhandled the
nozzle (no innuendo intended), no gas was forthcoming.
I simply could not remember how to do it.

Well, yes, this is a little embarrassing, I thought,
so I went into the gas station shop and talked to the
beautiful sari-clad woman behind the counter, who very
graciously offered to help me.

"You are a foreigner, from England?" she said.

"Yes."

"I think you have not been here long?"

I was going to say, "Actually it's been seven years,"
but it would have been too embarrassing to say that in
seven years I had not learnt how to pump gas, so
instead I said, "No, not long."

"You do not usually pump your own gas?" she said, as
she stuck the nozzle into my car.

"No, I don't."

"I know how you feel. Back in my country, Pakistan, I
had servants who did all that. When I came to America,
I said to my husband, 'What? You want me to fill up my
own gas tank? Are you crazy?'" She chuckled.

Oh goodness me, no. I didn't want her to think I was
some pampered little housewife who had a valet to pump
her gas for her. "I don't pump my own gas because,
well, because my husband does it for me. Not because I
have servants."

And then there was a brief moment of summing each
other up, as we tried to work out the other's social
status. I thought it was pretty obvious that back in
Pakistan, she had been of a higher social status than
me. But maybe she thought that I was of the higher
class. In any case, it mattered not a jot, because us
both being immigrants was the great class leveller.

And I thought of all the immigrants that have entered
this country, and for once I actually thought, I am
glad to be an immigrant. Because when you are a
foreigner, you are equal to all other foreigners. For
example, to some people here, I am as loathed as an
illegal Mexican immigrant (not that I am saying there
is anything wrong with Mexicans, illegal or
otherwise).

I didn't ask the woman why she had left her homeland
to come here. We all have our stories. We are all
running away from something when we come to a foreign
country, and we don't always find the welcome we
expected.

And for that moment, I felt more connected to her than
I have to any born and bred American, since I have
been in this country. It was a good feeling actually,
knowing that these were my people. That all American
immigrants, past and future, were my community.

Music Review: Lori McKenna

Written by John from Altjiranga Mitjina

For once my timing is right on with this week’s voice to hear. I actually had decided on making this week’s voice Lori McKenna while I was listening to her most recent album in my car and when I went to her website to gather some information for this week’s column I discovered that her new cd Unglamorous will be released on August 14, the day after this column appears (or at least would have if Heather's internet connection hadn't gone down for the week).

You might not know who Lori is, but if you’re much of a country fan you’ve probably heard a few of her songs. Faith Hill recorded three of her songs for her most recent album, including the title song “Fireflies.” Faith says she heard Lori’s songs and fell in love with them. The other two songs Faith covers are “Stealing Kisses” and “If You Ask.” The added attention brought Lori’s last album to the attention of Warner Brothers and they re-released Bittertown on their Nashville label. Her newest album which comes out tomorrow if you’re reading this the day it pops up on the internet is produced by Tim McGraw and was recorded in Nashville with a session of studio musicians. Country singer Sara Evans has recorded the song “Bible Song” also.

Not bad for a woman who didn’t start singing until she was 27 and already married with three children. She made her professional debut at open mike nights in the clubs in Boston. At the age of 19 she married her high school sweetheart. Currently they have five children. She released her first album Paper Wings and Halos independently. A singer/songwriter friend of hers, Mary Gauthier (an upcoming Voice to Hear) gave her music to people she knew in Nashville and Lori signed a publishing deal with Harlan Howard’s music company.

Lori lives in Stoughton, Massachusetts with her husband and five children. Her husband is a plumber and she used to drive to gigs in her mini-van. Since the inclusion of her song’s on Faith’s last album Lori has appeared on Oprah and opened part of the Soul2Soul tour for Faith and Tim. (Unfortunately not the show I saw recently.) On her MySpace page she blogs about the tour and traveling the country with the two country music superstars. You can almost hear the awe in her words as she talks about things she never imagined happening to her, life on the road with two of country’s biggest stars and appearing before crowds that she never thought she would.

Lori writes about life in a small town and life as a Mother and Wife so convincingly because she lives the life she writes about. Her song are not strictly auto biographical, but she takes parts from her own life and mixes it with what she sees around her and creates songs that tell the truth of such living.

On Mandy Moore’s new album the former teen pop star was looking to become a more serious singer/songwriter and went to Lori to collaborate on three of the songs on the new album. This could be one of the voices that we hear now as a small, not well known singer that might be on the verge of breaking out into super stardom. Lori might be about to take that next step to becoming to a Star, but regardless of her status in the music field she will continue to release albums of heartfelt emotion and superb singing and that is enough.

If you're reading this it can only mean one thing, that John from altjiranga mitjina has once again forgotten to provide a blurb after whatever it is he wrote for this issue. All he can say is that a mind is a terrible thing to waste. He'd write more but he'd just forget whatever it was he wrote.