I Like to Punch. I am a Bro.

So far this blog has been the thoughts and words of the three remarkable women with whom I happen to share this adventure. The posts have been about trees and seasons, walks and pies.

I live with my beautiful wife, and two of the most upstanding women I have had the pleasure of knowing. Sarah and Annie live upstairs and Kathleen and I live downstairs. It is a wonderful alternative to the lottery-style rooming situation that off-campus housing generally requires. We love it. And although I certainly enjoy the benefit of living with women who love to cook and put up flowers and bring fresh apples home, I am not going to write about these things. Or about the costumed, period-piece dramas they watch.

I am a Bro. And as a duly-elected representative of 25% of the population of the residents of Pilgrims, I want to talk about boy stuff.

And boys like to punch things.

I am a proud, card-carrying member(we don't have cards...) of the Kent Boxing Club. Can't you see the manliness in my typing? I have been training three days a week for the past three weeks, and I love it.

There are about forty of us and we are trained by a bulldog-faced Cockney. I don't know his name--I call him "coach." He yells quaint, coach-like things at us. "If you don lyke runnin, try the chess club. I fink dey might take you." Or "It'sa simpless fing in the world. 'It dem wif ou' gettin 'it. Simple."

Now believe it or not, despite the obvious wave of overpowering masculinity that you may experience upon seeing me, I am a relative newcomer to organized sports. I played little league. I was on the "we never cut anyone" types of teams. I played Madden video games. That's it. My athletically-minded best friend moved away the year I started high school, and with him moved my chance for a Stanley Cup belt.

I mention this because I am expecting a good-sized reaction when I say that I am a fairly good boxer, for a novice. I am one of the biggest guys in the club, if not the biggest, and I am strong. After getting kicked off a church basketball team(this is a lie), I finally turned to weight-lifting as a solo sport and I have been doing that for five or six years(this is true). And I made a lot of progress. I started at 125 lbs. Now I weigh 185 lbs, and I have a lot of power in my right, even if I get winded faster than I should. Weightlifting has prepared me decently, and I felt really confident in my progress within the boxing club.

Then the club President asked me if I wanted to spar with one of the more seasoned guys.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit hesitant. I mean, after all, what if I was awful? What if I decided that it was impossible to get better, which I've used as an excuse before, and quit? What if I hit a guy and his whole head came off?

It could happen.

After a really long half-second, I said sure and ran over to the ring.

Out of the many things I was nervous about getting into the ring, the biggest was this--I didn't want to be gun-shy. I didn't want to be the kid that drops everything he has learned and covers his head, or is afraid to get anywhere near the other guy. My fears, it turns out, were not needed. I found out that I'm the kind of guy that drops everything he's learned and tries to kill the other guy. After three weeks of learning to defend myself, first and foremost, I forget everything when I see his head in front of me, and I try and hit him into the ground like a whack-a-mole.

Unfortunately, Manos, the Greek gentleman I was sparring with, had really long arms. That meant that every time I tried to get near him he whacked me in the head three times before I could hit him once.

Now I did hit him, really well a couple of times, but he definitely got me many more times. I didn't really notice at the time, due to my primal, destroy-gene activation. But right now I am typing with a black eye, slightly swollen nose, and bruises all over my right arm from some wild right hooks Manos was very efficient at blocking.

Needless to say, I have a lot to learn about boxing before I can properly remove someone's head. But I love boxing.

It's for boys.

Yay for seasons!

This is one of my favorite things right now. The changing of the season, and the fact that it is taking place slow enough for us to enjoy it!







I took these pictures on Sunday when Kathleen went apple picking on the grounds. We also stopped by to see Bugsy. Then Kathleeny made an amazing apple pie. Best one yet!

Have I mentioned I have the best friends ever!

Ode to Animals

Well, it's Tuesday afternoon. After a really inspiring translations class, we are all home and puttering around. Annie's busy making soup for our sick bunnies (remember that book Mom?), Sarah is catching up on her blogs, Jesse is reading. Unfortunately, I brought a cold home from London, and we've all taken turns entertaining it--luckily, there's always been someone healthy to play nurse. It's just so nice to have a relaxing afternoon.

Anyway, I thought I would pay tribute to the many animal friends we have met here. I know, you wouldn't expect the English countryside to be so full of wildlife, right? Well it is. Today as Annie and I were walking home from the little Chilham market, I nearly stepped on a little field mouse! He was about the size of a bouncy ball (I didn't check to se if he bounced) and so cute! After he scampered away, we started walking again and ten feet later, another little mouse friend! Just sitting on the sidewalk looking at our big shoes! So cute. Among our other friends are:

The famous pigs down the road at the cidery~

and their friends the donkeys (whose back fence backs up to Bugsy's)~

Our old pal Bugsy~

Miss Tillie (who stopped by yesterday to show me she'd had been to the hairdresser)~

The sheepies we pass on the way to the bus stop~

Quarantined!

DISCLAIMER: This post was written whilst heavily medicated.

It is official. The first wave of the sickness has hit Pilgrims. Kathleen was the first one struck down, followed swiftly by Annie and Sarah. Now it seems Jesse is not safe.

On a good note Kathleen is better, and Sarah and Annie are on the mend with the help of "Night Nurse" and "Mucus Cough Menthol;" and Jesse doesn't seem too badly stricken.

So for the time being visits should be kept to a minimum, until further notice!

After Apple-Picking

...Get it? Cuz I'm studying poetry, and that's, like, a famous poem!

I'm sure one of us will someday blog about, you know, school. But for now, I'd like to talk about the fact that there is a small orchard of apple trees here on the Pilgrims grounds, six of which are presently bearing, four of which are presently bearing well -- crisp, juicy, tart-enough-for-baking, sweet-enough-for-snacking, big, rosy, beautiful apples.

So every few days, Kathleen or I take a shopping bag down to the orchard. Sometimes we bring a camera. Sometimes we bring a friend with a camera. Click to enlarge.

We eat them in sandwiches...

(mayo, horseradish, ham, apple, Brie, sauteed leek)

...in salads...

(spinach, honey-mustard vinaigrette, chickpeas, apple, 
boiled egg, smoked mackerel, crumbled Blacksticks bleu 
and cranberry-Wendsleydale cheeses)

...and, of course, in pastry.

(pie.)

I love picking apples (and peaches, and pumpkins, and berries, and corn, and rosemary, and and and, ad infinitum [NON ad nauseam]). I wrote the following poem a couple months ago; it gets all philosophical or whatever on the subject of trees and fruit. But deep down I'm just flat-out awed by the fact that green leafy things grow up out of the dirt and make flowers that turn into tasty, nourishing food.

Reparation

If you wake
(or dream) to find
your house harboring
a tree trunk
—like a rough sticky pillar
placed by a drunken architect
smack-in-front of the fridge door,
perhaps, or snugged in the crook
of the Steinway, ruining 

the high notes
or precisely between the sitting room sofas,
necessitating awkward
tilts of the head
when company calls to converse—

do not cut it down

(or out or away). Instead enjoy

the scent, the texture,

the surprise of still life.

Maybe if you’re lucky

the creaks you hear in the night

will be the tree 
beginning

to bear the dead wood weight

of floorboards and beams,

gathering and lifting them up onto tiptoe

until at last the whole house

leaves earth

for that slow green ride

toward the sun.
More likely,

the results will be just

disastrous: black roots cracking

your foundation while branches
tangle in rafters
and the widening trunk drips

a slow rain of broken plaster into your hair—

all as leaves press their broad faces

against your window panes

like a gang of laughing children.
Because trees don’t know how

(or when or why)

to stop.
They grow and grow and grow until
they die. But 
it’s the least you can do
to let it so grow—that old stolen apple 

left more than human
skin naked. When the first chill
dropped, what must the robbed

tree have thought

when its bark split

its sap sludged
and before their final fall
its leaves stiffened one by one—
it not having eyes
to see the rainbow glow
the feather flight

of their death?

Transportation is Silly

This post is all about our adventures so far in the many modes of transportation that we have used. Now we have bus passes for the school year, so the majority of our transportation happens in bus form.

Now when we were looking for a home we traveled all over on the bus. Most of these times were fun, like when Jesse pulled the grandpa face and walk when we were the only ones in the upper level.

Then there were upsetting times like when a few NED kids decided to be idiots and try and torment us. That only lasted a few moments, until Jesse (the Irish bum) scared the poop out of them.






We have also had a few funny moments in cabs. My favorite memory was when we had to move everything from the church, where we were storing it, to our new home in Chilham. To say we were squished would be a bit of an understatement.





But some of my favorite moments have been when we are on the train. I don't know exactly why these moments are so funny to me, but they are.

These first two happened after church one Sunday and it's just so silly that I had to post it.




During the conference weekend we took the train several times. I loved that we looked all business-y and yet looked silly to me. Annie's picture looks almost like a paparazzi picture to me.





These last few pictures were of this Wednesday when we were taking a train home from going to see "Back to the Future" in the cinema. Kathleeny was sicky-pants and was bundled up in Jesse's hat, coat, and scarf. Jesse bought Maltesers (British version of Whoppers, but way way better) and decided to make ramp for them to fall into his mouth. He also rolled one to Annie and Kathleeny... I wish my camera had been faster.






I am so lucky to have adventures with these people! They are amazing!

French Dissing...

So Jesse and I took a whirlwind trip to London last weekend and had a wonderful time. We toured some great Peter Pan-centric locations, and then did some regular old sight seeing. More on that later. I would like to share with you our first experience with genuine French...ness.

I always thought the view of French people as "snobby" or "stuck up" was slightly biased. I'm sure there are polite people and not-so-polite people in every country, yada yada yada. So Jesse and I dined at L'Escargot in London, which was quite hoytie-toytie. Dinner was yummy (and reasonably priced as we ate early in the evening--I guess lots of restaurants have a "pre-theatre" rate).

Have you ever seen the episode of Frasier where Niles and Frasier decide to open a restaurant together? There's a small table in a cramped corner that they dub "the enchanted grotto"--this is where they stick Bulldog and his date, etc. Well, Jesse and I were dressed fairly nicely, but we had backpacks on and looked like tourists. When we asked if we needed a reservation to eat, the greeter sort of sized us up and said she would see if they had a spot for us. She returned and led us through the (empty) restaurant to a table in the corner. The ambiance was very romantic--soft candlelight and muted, elegant decor. That is, except for the HUGE gold-leafed T-Rex scull with rhinestone-bedazzled teeth hanging over our table! We were definitely seated in the enchanted grotto. After a nice dinner (the kind where the waiter is ridiculously concerned with the state and location of your napkin), we asked our overly-attentive waiter if there was a story behind the dinosaur head.

"Story? I'm sorry, I don't understand," he replied in a thick French accent.

"You know, a story. Do you have a name for him? Does the staff call him Rex?"

"Eh, just a moment, I don't know--I go check."

At this point, I erupted in a fit of snorts which I tried to hide behind my tired napkin. Oh what a funny miscommunication, right? Another waiter returned to take some plates, and Jesse asked him the same question about having a nickname for the thing. The waiter said,

"Actually, it is art. My boss is very into art, you know, and one day he brought it in his truck. It is 24-karat gold." I laughed at him, thinking, it's so stinkin' huge, he MUST be joking with us. But no,

"It's gold-leafed," he said. We could hardly get ourselves out the door fast enough. There was no language misunderstanding! They were just that serious about their art! And what art!

The House of Requirement

Someday, we will post the epic saga of our first week here in jolly old England. Until then, enjoy the below photos of our lovely little home.

Street-view. It's a small annex attached to the main house,
which is 'only about a hundred years old,' according to our landlady.

Our sitting room window-wall, as seen from the courtyard.

Cozy sitting room. We fight over that floral chair in the foreground.

Country kitchen, fully equipped,
down to a roasting pan, a rolling pin, and four egg cups.

Wide shot of the whole sherbang.

The Thorsons' room. Yes, that's a writing desk in the corner.
It has little drawers that you need a skeleton key to open.

Spiral staircase up the turret to Sarah's and my chambers.

Dressing room.

Bedroom. Goose-down duvet and pillows. Charming slanty-type ceiling. Window overlooking the gardens.

We like it here.