Christmas cookies to me are the language of love in the Advent and Christmas seasons. I’m behind this year – I’ve only made one measly batch so far, and Friday is the kids’ last day of school, so I need to get cracking in order to have the boxes of freshly baked goods ready for their teachers and staff at their schools.
I write about Christmas cookies in Finding Myself in Britain, for the lack of them here in the UK (where mince pies, Christmas pudding and Christmas cake are the choice seasonal foods) sent me baking as I tried to recreate America on these shores. Well, at least a bit of Yankee Doodle love…
Here is the Pye Family Favo(u)rite, an almond cookie bursting with taste and flavor. I make a triple batch because everyone loves it so much. If you have a go, post a photo of your delicacies and let me know if it rivals your best mince pie!
I first heard of Katie Swartz from my then-fiancé who said excitedly, “A North American couple is joining Ridley, coming over on the QE2!” They arrived in Cambridge, where Nicholas was studying to become a vicar, a few months before we got married and I moved there as well. Life was new and different for us all, and Katie and I didn’t get to know each other terribly well – as she said in a joint interview for Woman Alive, she was “working four jobs and then pregnant and terribly nauseous.” She and her husband went on to have four more children after their first was born in Cambridge, when they lived in a flat with a narrow, round staircase separating the bedroom from the loo (a nightmare for a pregnant woman). Since then, the family has lived in the UK and back in the States and now in the UK again, and Katie all the while has been writing loads of wonderful novels. I love her Tales from Goswell series, the first of which, The Vicar’s Wife, intertwines a modern-day American-moved-to-England with a Victorian vicar’s wife.
Her addition to the “There’s No Place Like Home” series had me in tears.
After Amy asked me to contribute to her blog, I have been reflecting on what home means to me, and I realized that it has changed over the last few months. A little over four years ago my husband and I, along with our four children, moved from New York City to a small village in England’s Lake District, and what I felt was my ideal home: a two-hundred-year-old vicarage with eight bedrooms and plenty of space to practice Christian hospitality, a walled garden perfect for the vegetable plot I’d been longing for, and a warm and friendly village community I was eager to be a part of. I truly felt I’d come home.
St Bees in Cumbria, the Swartz’s home for four years.
For four years we enjoyed that home, entertaining often, planting a garden, and becoming valued members of our community. Looking back, I wonder if I was a bit smug about it all—I had everything I’d wanted. Then, quite suddenly, the school where my husband served as chaplain closed, his position was cut, and we were forced to move in a matter of months. That perfect home was taken away from us—making me reassess what really comprises a home.
We now live in rented accommodation in a village where I am slowly getting to know the residents, and my husband has a new job as a teacher—one he is very thankful for, but not the kind of position he ever expected to have. Everything feels very temporary and fragile—made more so by the fact that as the same time as all of this was happening, my dear father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He is now in its last stages.
This all might sound rather grim, but there is a magnificent silver lining to it—and that is, as a Christian, I realize now more than ever that home is not a beautiful vicarage or a temporary house or even the prospect of having your family all around you, as we will this Christmas, my father’s last. For the Christian, home is heaven.
It hasn’t been easy to give up the things I have enjoyed and desired—the lovely house, the cooking range we saved up for, the walled garden I spent many hours on. Beyond those material things, I have missed the community we were part of and the church where we served. I dislike having my life feel temporary and uncertain, and yet it has all been such a valuable lesson to me, because isn’t all of life uncertain?
The Bible tells us this world is fleeting. Over the last few months I have been reminded of the parable of the rich fool who stored his crops in big barns, only to have his life taken away from him that very night, and I have wondered if I had been doing the same.
In the Western world it is so easy and tempting to yearn after material goods. For the Christian this might not be a flashy sports car or something similar, but merely a comfortable home, a place to raise your family and offer hospitality—none of those are bad things to desire. But I am constantly asking myself: where is my heart? Where is my hope?
Katharine’s parents.
As my world has crumbled and changed, I have the deep and abiding joy that it is with Christ, in heaven, where God promises: ‘Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.’ (Revelation 7:16-17)
This Christmas, as you enjoy the many blessings of the season that God has granted you, I encourage you to reflect on the true meaning of Advent in looking forward to Christ’s return, and the hope of heaven that believers may all hold onto now.
After spending three years as a diehard New Yorker, and four years in the Lake District, Katharine Swartz now lives in the Cotswolds with her husband, their five children, and a golden retriever. She writes women’s fiction as well as contemporary romance under the name Kate Hewitt, and whatever the genre she enjoys delivering a compelling and intensely emotional story. Her latest is The Lost Garden.
When I look back at growing up in Minnesota, I think of the BLTs my mom made me for breakfast, or the chicken-noodle soup we’d have for Christmas Eve (which I still make – recipe in Finding Myself in Britain), or Iowa-fried chicken cooked in my grandma’s cast-iron pan, or my mom’s cinnamon rolls and homemade rye bread (yep, recipes for those too in the book). They call macaroni and cheese “comfort food” for a reason.
Photo: cyclonebill, Flickr
I knew that food plays an important role in memory and emotions (comfort eating, anyone?), but recently I was taken aback by just how powerful is the absence of loved and familiar foods for people away from their country of origin. I realized this when I raised a question in several Facebook groups for American ex-pats in the UK, having come in contact with one of the key buyers of the American food section at a massive grocery chain. Intrigued with the idea of influencing this chain and their selection American products, I posted these questions to my fellow expats: “What foods do you miss? What do you wish this grocery-store chain would stock?”
I posted and left for my gym class, and when I came back a couple of hours later I was stunned at the rapid response. In that short amount of time, one group had 92 replies; another had 48; another 32. I clearly had hit a nerve.
I loved scrolling down the comments, for some foods that others hankered after I forgot about, such as pizza rolls. Other entries I could understand the draw of, although they didn’t apply to me, such as coffee creamer (I don’t drink coffee). Some items kept popping up again and again, such as real dill pickles (no sugar added, please) and real bacon (streaky, that is).
Real pickles don’t have sugar. Photo: Maggie Mudd, Flickr
I saw lots of cracker type longings: graham crackers (digestive biscuits just aren’t the same), saltine crackers, Cheez-its, Wheat Thins, Goldfish, and especially Triscuits, as evidenced by this comment: “For the love of all that is holy, they have one-thousand types of ‘cracker’-type products, but nothing I have found that approaches the taste or texture of a TRISCUIT.” Amen.
The mighty Triscuit. Photo: Yasmeen, flickr
And Velveeta and Kraft macaroni and cheese (which many supermarkets stock, but at 3 quid a pop I can’t justify it – the equivalent to 5 bucks a box, which only costs a dollar Stateside) and Old Bay seasoning and Jiffy cornbread mix and Cool Whip and Miracle Whip and Eggo waffles (PyelotBoy heartily agrees) and, again and again, Hidden Valley ranch packets.
A British person reading this list might think, huh? That sounds like a lot of processed food – why would they miss it? But we do. These foods scream memories or convenience or form the missing ingredient in a favorite recipe (Fritos for Frito pie, anyone?). Food can signify home to us because of the people we’ve eaten our feasts with; the memories we’ve created; the conversation, love, and sense of knowing and being known.
Kashi! Photo: Heidi Smith, flickr
For many years, I brought back boxes of Kashi GoLean Crunch, a cereal filled with protein and that satisfying tooth-filling-defying crunch. I think one summer I brought back 22 bags of the stuff, hoarding it in the cupboard under the stairs, grudgingly sharing it with my children. I even made five of my high-school friends bring a couple of bags with them as their “payment” for staying at the vicarage, calling them my Kashi mules. But eventually I tired of it, switching my allegiance to oatmeal (UK: porridge) with a dollop of almond butter to make it rich and nutty. Yet recently, I was cleaning out that cupboard under the stairs and I came upon a crusty old bag of that Kashi GoLean Crunch. How I would have loved it years previously when it was fresh, but now all it was suitable for was the trash.
So what foods would you bring back in a suitcase if you lived away from your country of origin? What screams home to you?
I met Simon Lawton when he and his wife Julia invited me to come speak to women at their amazing church in Newcastle last spring. Their church was growing and a Bingo hall was declining, so they swapped premises – fantastic! I love their vision for reaching their community with the good news of Jesus.
Home is where the heart is and where we belong. But what happens if, as you grow up, you don’t really have that sense of belonging. I was adopted into a Christian home and spent my early years feeling like I didn’t belong. I felt disconnected from my parents and my siblings through no fault of theirs. I had an itch that I couldn’t adequately scratch and a sense that there was a home and a family elsewhere.
When I was 16 I received limited information from my adopted parents concerning my background. I had always felt like there was something missing from my life. I wanted to know, like most adopted children, where I’d come from and where my roots were. I discovered that my biological mother was from the very town that I had grown up in (Leicester) and that my father was from Omaha, Nebraska. He was an US Airforce engineer based in Leicestershire during the early 60s. At the time I was simply happy to rest in this knowledge and get on with my life.
I decided in 1989 that it was time I found my biological mother and this we achieved with the help of social services. It was an incredibly emotional moment when I met her for the first time. I’d found my own flesh and blood and also someone whom I discovered had the same interests as me. I felt like for the first time that I belonged.
It was not until 2001 that God clearly directed me to look for my father. I had been thinking about it for some years and had a deep longing in my heart to find him. I was at a pastor’s conference in Toronto and received an incredibly accurate personal prophecy, part of which emphasised how important it was for me to know who my father was. Amazing!
On my return home I started searching on the internet and within a few weeks I was calling this guy whom I thought was my Dad on the phone. What do you say to this man thousands of miles away when he answers his phone? I simply said, ‘Were you at Bruntingthorpe airbase in Leicestershire in the early 1960’s?’ He replied ‘Yes’ and I paused for a moment and then said, ‘I think I’m your son!’ He was absolutely delighted and told me he had always thought there was someone out there.
In that moment I discovered a whole family, including two great half brothers, in the USA that I had no idea existed previously. I finally felt that I belonged and had a home. They are wonderful people and when Julia and I visited the USA for the first time they threw the most fantastic party in Omaha for us. I felt like the prodigal son returning home. They remain very special to me and we very much keep in touch.
Whilst in Omaha I discovered lots of information on my new family. My great grandparents are of Syrian descent from a place called Beth Latiya. I later discovered that it is the headquarters for the terrorist organisation Hamas! Wow! Further, I also discovered that my ancestors had been immigrants through Ellis Island and that whilst those US immigration guys changed the spelling of my family name to ‘Koory,’ the original name was spelt ‘Khouri.’ I was stunned to also discover that in Syrian the name ‘Khouri’ means ‘priest!’
This knowledge simply blew me away….to think that one of my early ancestors was a priest and here I was hundreds of years later, serving God as a priest (pastor). I was even more amazed to discover from the Syrian family historian that the family tree goes back to Solomon. Incredible!
God has been so gracious to me. He created me in my mother’s womb and set me in a wonderful Christian home where I was able to find Christ for myself and have that sense of belonging. He allowed me the privilege of discovering my family background and then he allowed me the even greater privilege of serving Him in His home – the church. I remain completely in His debt.
“Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young— a place near your altar, Lord Almighty, my King and my God.” (Psalm 84:3)
The Dream Centre, where Simon is a pastor. I love the story how their church swapped places with a dying bingo hall in Newcastle. Hooray for God’s message of love and grace!
Simon Lawton was born and bred in Leicester. He left school at 16 and worked in retailing until God called him into ministry in 1985. He’s an adopted Geordie, Pastor, Husband, Father, Grandpa and Leicester City fan. He’s currently writing his first book and blogs regularly.
In Finding Myself in Britain, I take a through-the-year approach at life in the UK. Originally I wanted to start the book with Advent, for after all, it’s when the church calendar commences. But I took my publisher’s good advice and instead began with the start of the academic year, which marks a time of fresh starts. Here’s a snippet of the chapter on Advent: “Waiting for the Coming King.”
Photo: grassrootsgroundswell, Flickr
For those who follow a church calendar, the start of the church year begins with the season of Advent. Traditionally the four Sundays before Christmas have been a period of fasting during which we prepare ourselves for the birth of Jesus. Some Christians are returning to this lost practice, making sure they have done all of their Christmas shopping, for instance, before Advent starts. They take the time and energy to prepare for Advent so that they can be ready for Christmas.
I laud them. I would love to be like them. But I haven’t ever managed a complete fast from decorations or baking or even Christmas carols during Advent, for the cultural trappings of the season speak deeply to me of the spiritual meaning of Christmas. Growing up, I’d help decorate the Christmas tree much earlier than what Nicholas experienced – his family would purchase theirs on Christmas Eve, whereas my parents use the late November days just before or after Thanksgiving to put up theirs. As a child, I never knew of Christmas carols banned during Advent, for I understood that the practical preparation of this season was part of the spiritual looking ahead.
I would love to spend Advent in quiet reflection, praying and preparing for Jesus to be born in my heart and home, but instead I mix the reflective with the practical as I get ready for the feasts of Christmas. Because the British traditions differ from the American, over the years I’ve worked hard to ensure that Christmas feels like Christmas in this foreign land. What could feel like a situation of scarcity – the pain of being away from loved ones during the holidays – has evolved into a season of abundance as our traditions have developed and solidified. Finding myself in Britain means creatively enacting the American approach to Advent and Christmas, while learning the British one too. And more importantly, making sure the Christian elements, which transcend any culture, receive the star treatment.
How about you? How do you approach the season of Advent? Are there practices you ban, saving them for the twelve days of Christmas, or do you enter into the spirit of the season as soon as you can?
Today’s installment in the “There’s No Place Like Home” series is Debbie Duncan, lovely author I had the privilege of working with at Authentic Media with the release of her co-authored book Life Lines, a brilliant fictionalized-but-based-in-reality look at friendship. She’s a minister’s wife and nurse who has taught at the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing, King’s College London. She and Malcolm have four teenage children and live in Buckinghamshire, UK.
Am I a turtle without his shell?
We have a natural affinity to the past; something captivates us when we hear where are from or when we learn about our ancestors. Certainly the television programme, “Who do you think you are” has been a huge success, facilitating an increase in people looking into their own genealogy. I have managed to get back to 1600 in my family tree, uncovering a pirate called Foxy Ned, a lady of the manor who ran off with the groomsman and a diamond scandal. My family have many roots in many countries and I cannot on good authority say where I am from, although I do claim to be Scottish as Scotland is where I spent my formative years. Home, however, is a different matter.
Home is where I feel safe, surrounded by those I love. At the moment we are based in Buckinghamshire, having lived in the same house for more than five years, which is a record for us. Three of my children are presently away from home at university. When my oldest daughter, Anna, went, she had a box of decorations for her room. It was really important to her that this box was packed and went with her. In fact she packed it before she packed any clothes or books. On her first evening in her new halls the box was un-packed and she strung up her lights and hung up her photos.
Susan Clayton, an environmental psychologist says, “For many people, their home is part of their self-definition.” They have bought in to this concept of home, paying for a mortgage or spending money renovating and decorating buildings. Walls are covered with photos and pictures of where we have been and shelves are covered with souvenirs from past adventures. I have to confess I have the odd smattering of tartan throughout the house.
“Where are you from” is an important question but “where do you call home?” should be the question we ask. And if we think that “home is where the heart is” then home is where we are right now. For the moment for us that’s in Chalfont St Peter, where I have come to love the community. For instance, when we experienced tragic loss earlier this year I had a strong desire to stay at home – I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to feel safe and secure surrounded by people I know.
I am made even more aware of how much I value this place I call home as I have been involved in a pilot project in a nearby town as an outreach nurse for the homeless. They live in a hostel where they are supported by a variety of care givers and staff. They may not have a physical space that they have decorated but they have a place of safety where people care for them. Some of the clients have talked about how they feel exposed not having their own place – a little like a turtle without his shell.
The Duncans
As Christians our natural trajectory should be towards our real home. This place I live in is a temporary measure but like a turtle without a shell maybe this keeps me focused, awaiting the day when I am made whole and complete. The money I spend on my surroundings means where I live looks comfortable and may reflect some of my identity but that is only truly revealed when I am in my real home.
Home is where we are right now, but for those who believe in Jesus it is also only a temporary state. I am not defined by the pirates and diamond dealers of my past or whether I am English or Scottish. I am defined by being part of God’s kingdom, heading towards my final destination of my real home.
Reepicheep, the valiant talking mouse in CS Lewis’ book The Last Battle, stood on the shore at the end of the story and said, “I have come home at last! This is my real country. I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life.” He may not have been a turtle, but he found his shell.
I love this holiday – a non-commercialized time to stop and breathe and give thanks. A time to join with family and friends to feast and laugh and sing and share. A time to enjoy and spread the joy.
But we live in an imperfect world, and someone’s chair may be empty at our Thanksgiving table. Or we’re separated from the ones we really want to be with. Or we’re not even in the country that’s celebrating this holiday – that’s me today (Tonight I’ll be at my master’s class talking about gender and Christian spirituality!).
May the Lord fill in the gaps, shining his light into the places of pain and longing and giving us his peace.
May we breathe in his light and love.
May we give thanks – whichever country we’re living in.
The gifts I’ve received in the publishing process for Finding Myself in Britain have been breathtaking. Such as how the cover came about – I share the story of finding our designer, Vivian Hansen, in part one of this series. Only when I received Vivian’s email as she responded to my questions did I learn that she and I share our Christian faith – and a love of travel. How amazing to connect with this talented young artist! Read to the bottom of the post to see how to get in contact with her (especially if you’re involved in publishing) and to see more of her varied art – she works with oils, watercolors, sketching with pencil and others. In her words:
I have been drawing as long as I can remember. When I was a child, I wrote and illustrated many stories, always loving how people would react and engage with the little worlds I created. I later enjoyed it as a kind of escape, much like reading a book. But to be honest, it wasn’t until I was about 17 that I realized I had a particular talent in art. I had a deep wanderlust throughout my youth (fueled by the mountains of books I lived inside of), which eventually led me to leave my tiny country town in southern Mississippi and go to live with a family in Ireland. It didn’t take long for the art professor there to find me drawing, and he invited me into his art class – the first I’d ever been in. He taught me the basics, and I delved into a whole universe that had been waiting for me. By the time I graduated, my mind was set on pursuing a creative career. It has been a long and winding road, but I am very thankful to have had the opportunity to study illustration.
I was finishing up my last bit of art school when I found the contest for your book cover design. A friend of mine told me about the site, so I took a look around. Contest sites typically have a shady reputation in the professional art community for taking advantage of artists, and even reputable sites like 99Designs should be approached with caution. But as soon as I read the brief for Finding Myself in Britain, I had a rush of ideas. I picked up a pencil and started sketching. It’s a big risk to spend a great deal of time and effort on work that may not be fruitful, so I approached it with the idea of using it as a creative exercise. The brief was inspiring for me as a traveler, a bibliophile, a Christian, and a designer who likes a good challenge. It was clear that you were looking for something different, so I was happy to oblige!
I was really surprised and delighted to learn that I’d won the contest! I called my mom right away and told some of my classmates, including the one who had introduced me to the site. I’ve had my work published in small things before, but this was going to be the most widely published work of mine to date. Most of all, I was so grateful for the opportunity to use my God-given talents on a faith based project. What a joy it is to use the talent and opportunity I’ve been blessed with to do the Lord’s work! I hope to contribute again to Christian publishing and continue to be a vessel for His work.
My first thoughts when I started sketching were about focusing on a more conceptual design than a decorative one. Book covers featuring original artwork in a clever way stand out in a sea of stock images, so I knew I wanted a strong image with meaning. At first I considered what it feels like to be “different” while in another country and how I might represent that in a unique way. I ended up with a drawing of a sunflower growing from a rose bush; the flower clearly isn’t native to that plot, but it stands out in a bright, bold, happy way. Other ideas centered around place. One that I was fond of featured lots of different shapes and styles of windows you might see around the world, with a little cartoon Amy perched happily in a window resembling a stone church.
Inthe end, I was most drawn to a very simple but iconic image of a teapot with an American flag motif pouring Amy into a teacup decorated with the British flag. I think it presents the idea of instant immersion, maybe even culture shock, but in a funny, positive way (especially with help of the bright, playful colors). I hope it will draw readers in enough for them to read the back and discover what it’s all about – and from there, I’m sure they’ll be hooked!
Literature and travel are still a big part of my life. I’m a big dreamer and adventurer, and it directly affects and inspires my work. I graduated at the end of summer and started making plans for my next journey, which has brought me to Spain. I travel cheaply by flying stand-by and finding unique accommodation; this time, I’m working part-time at the front desk of a hostel in Madrid in exchange for room and partial board. It’s an amazing way to get to know a place in a real way. After two months of travel, I’ll return to the U.S. for Thanksgiving and then pack my bags again for Costa Rica, where I’ll be visiting my boyfriend’s family for the first time. Each place I visit is full of treasures for the eye as well as stories to take with me. I have lived in Ireland, Japan, France, and now for a while in Spain, and each place leaves a huge mark on me. I change and grow a bit each time and share my own stories, culture, and experiences with the people I meet.
By the start of 2016 I hope to start campaigning for greater amounts of freelance work. Where will I be? I have no idea. That’s the beauty of it. I’m at a peculiar time in my life that allows for these opportunities and, while I look forward to someday building my own family and having a place I call home, for now I am thankful for the chance to see the world and share it with others through my stories and art works.
How can people connect with me? When I am based in the U.S., I open up my Etsy shop to sell prints of my work and occasionally original art work and other handmade things, and in early 2016 I will launch a Kickstarter campaign to get my children’s book published. I also have my website, a Facebook page and an Instagram account where I post things I’m working on currently, including my travel drawings. The best thing about being an artist is simply sharing my work with others, so I am glad for any platform I can use to connect with people!
A Christmas card created by Vivian. Check out her process on her website – fascinating.I love the variety in her art.Art in motion – watercolors at Lower Yellowstone Falls.Wonderfully fabulous Valentine’s Day card.
“There’s no place like home” – even for expats like me and Adrianne Fitzpatrick, whom I’m pleased to introduce today. Adrianne is a writer and publisher of Books to Treasure, a small independent press producing quality children’s literature, whom I met through the Association of Christian Writers. I love her passion and commitment to all things books. Her contribution to our series on finding home struck a chord in me, for I too cling to the identity of the land of my birth.
When I was four years old, my parents decided to move from New Zealand to Australia (the land of my father’s birth). Even at that tender age, the prospect devastated me. I was, apparently, in love with a boy who was all of six or seven, and I begged him to ask his mother if I could live them instead! Alas, it was not to be; and a few weeks shy of my fifth birthday, I found myself on foreign soil. I was not impressed. To add insult to injury, in New Zealand I would have started school on my birthday (which was in June). In Australia I was required to wait until the following January, when the new academic year began. This was not a good beginning!
Adrianne in 1994 rediscovering her New Zealand roots.
I clung desperately to my New Zealand heritage as I grew up. When I felt Australian pronunciations beginning to impinge on the way I talked, I would ask my mother how to say things the New Zealand way. I steadfastly refused to become Australian. As an adult I would still claim my NZ birthright even while acknowledging my Australian upbringing with its cultural influences. Yet despite all that, I never felt any urge to return to New Zealand, even when I was old enough to make that choice. In spite of myself, Australia had become home.
I moved around so much, both as a child and later as wife to a minister, that I became adept at feeling at home wherever I was. (In fifty-odd years I’ve moved thirty-two times. I’ve been in my current house for six and a half years. That’s a record for me!) One thing that struck me after I became a Christian in my teens was the feeling of community that greeted me whenever I went to a new church, whether as part of the ministry team or as a visitor on holiday. One would expect that in your home church, but for me it was always a welcome surprise – and eventually something to look forward to – when going somewhere new. It gave me a sense of continuity, a sense of home, that I appreciated in the midst of so much change and uncertainty.
Back in Australia – Blue Mountains
However, I can’t blame all the moves in my life on other people, because I was the one who chose to come to the UK. I grew up on a diet of British books and, to a lesser extent, British television. My mother’s family are British, with my English grandfather being seconded to the New Zealand navy after the First World War. My great-grandfather, so family history goes, was a shepherd at Stonehenge. I had a longing to see this country, although I never expected to live here. Yet when I arrived here in 2003, I knew immediately that I had come home.
Finding beauty in the UK – Tintern Abbey
Twelve years later I can still say that the UK is the home of my heart. That’s not to say life has been without its challenges: family, health, finances, even friendships have all suffered at various points. But there has also been healing, restoration and reconciliation on emotional, physical and spiritual levels. God has truly brought me home – at least until he calls me to my permanent home.
At the end of an introduction to spirituality class at Heythrop College, one of my new friends slid me this little volume – a book published in 1946 which immediately captured my imagination, not least for the story that she recounted as she gave it to me. She said:
My German grandfather was a career German naval engineering officer, sunk by the British in the First World War, fished out of the Med and bunged in a rather uncomfortable camp in the desert outside Alexandria for the rest of the war. At the end of the Second World War he ended up in the bag again but by this time he was an admiral so was despatched to a stately home in Cumbria which was the destination for high ranking officers. If they gave their word that they would not escape that was accepted, so they were free to roam around the fells all day and return to a good supper in congenial surroundings in the evening. I think only one broke their word, featured, I believe, in the film “The One that Got Away”.
Meanwhile in Germany, British soldiers had commandeered the family home and Mum and her sisters had to move in with family elsewhere. The soldiers were always charming and friendly to the girls though. The upshot was that my grandfather believed that the British were an honourable people so at the end of the war when Germany was destroyed, most men were dead and my grandmother was going shopping with a wheelbarrow to carry all the inflated money, my mother set off to England to work as an au pair. Only one person was ever unkind to her as a German – a nurse whose fiancé was killed – and someone gave her How to Be an Alien to help her understand life over here. It obviously worked – she trained as a nurse at St Thomas’, then became a district midwife on a bike delivering babies in Surrey, then married my father and has lived here ever since.
I sat on the Tube home while galloping through How to Be an Alien and thinking of this young woman, new to the UK and living in a completely changed world while knowing she’d need to make this country her home. It made for poignant reading.
Of course, it being a humorous book, I wasn’t sure how much of the preface to the 24th impression was irony (not something I am known to grasp) and how serious the author was being as he rued the success of this book. He says:
This was to be a book of defiance… [I was] going to tell the English where to get off… I thought I was brave and outspoken and expected either to go unnoticed or to face a storm. But no storm came… all they said, was: ‘quite amusing’ (p.8).
So much of How to Be an Alien I could relate to. His chapter, “Introduction,” is not an introduction to the book but includes this observation: “The aim of introduction is to conceal a person’s identity.” Ah yes, the art of not giving one’s name, as I observe in my chapter “What’s in a Name” in Finding Myself in Britain. We both each devote a chapter to the weather – how can you not, this being Britain – and I should observe his instruction: “You must never contradict anybody when discussing the weather” (p. 22). Indeed.
I unwittingly followed his lead in writing a chapter about tea, but I wasn’t so rude in my opening as he is: “The trouble with tea is that originally it was quite a good drink” (p. 26). He has many instructions for how to receive tea magnanimously, even at 5am.
In sum, a lovely little volume, some of which seems quaint after all of these years, but much of which still rings true. And how wonderful to have been given it by a daughter of a foreigner-turned-friend.
How to Be an Alien, George Mikes, Penguin, ISBN 9780140025149
Christmas cookies to me are the language of love in the Advent and Christmas seasons. I’m behind this year – I’ve only made one measly batch so far, and Friday is the kids’ last day of school, so I need to get cracking in order to have the boxes of freshly baked goods ready for their teachers and staff at their schools.
