Happy Everest Day! While driving to our morning activities I read The Times to the kids -- there were several articles about the big event of May 29th, 1953. Talk about fodder for conversation -- particularly since within the week we had been gonged to breakfast at the place in Wales where preparations took place... It is true: when you have an emotional/personal connection to something it makes learning about that something exhilarating. What exhilarating things did we learn:
1. The kids learned that the term "bastard" originally meant somebody who was born out of wedlock, but as that was deemed such a terrible thing it turned in to being a crude insult. Why did the children learn this linguist lesson? Because Hillary's famous words when he met with his colleagues after conquering the summit was: "We knocked the bastard off."
2. We talked about the difference of personalities. By way of celebration the majority of the team shared a bottle of rum with Hillary. But I read: "Teetotaller Tenzing had to wait longer for his indulgence: the the valley below, his wife had saved, for the hero of Everest, a tin of condensed milk."
3. Despite, or because of those differences, by all reports there was a strong relationship between the two heroes. "Then, after a grim drudge of cutting steps in an endless incline, he saw that the slope had changed. 'The ridge ahead, instead of still monotonously rising, now dropped sharply away.' Hillary offered his hand. Tenzing grabbed him in a bear hug."
4. And they were heroes because... Because Britain financed the trip -- conquering Everest had become to the Brits what landing on the moon, a decade later would become to the US. And just as Russia's almost spurred on our country, the Brits were almost bested at reaching the top by a Swiss team. And so a team of the best climbers was gathered. They were the heroes because Hunt -- the Army colonel who was in charge of the expedition -- did his homework. He studied what happened with the Swiss climbers and was able to work through some improvements. They were heroes because of their teammates -- "George, Lowe... like a Tour de France team-mate approaching the Champs Elysees, broke trail at high altitude until the summit teams were ready to pass for the final sprint." They were heroes because others before them had failed. Mallory never came back in 1924; the Swiss were defeated a mere 300 meters from the summit; just two days before -- May 27, 1953 -- colleagues on the expedition, Evans and Bourdillon were only 100 meters from the top, but their "most advanced oxygen set ever" seemed to be failing and Evans begged Bourdillon to turn back, "saying that if they continued he would never see his wife again. They turned back and Bourdillon regretted it for the rest of his life." Wow. We learned about regret.
5. We learned that we have got to start working on our verbal and writing skills. Holy smokes these Brits are an articulate lot. "If you had at that moment asked the British public which climbers would feature most prominently in that exclusive, few would have suggested an Antipodean beekeeper and an impoverished Nepali-Indian." Antipodean anybody? The Dad guessed that it had something to do with the fact that Hillary was from New Zealand, and after we looked it up we deemed that he was right -- in the context of New Zealand to Europe. An antipode is an opposite. From Wikipedia: "The antipodes of any place on Earth is the point on the Earth's surface which is diametrically opposed to it." Clever people use it a bit more liberally: My messy uncle is an Antipodean to my tidy aunt. I think that in this context both meanings were being utilized, as Hillary was indeed from New Zealand, but he also seemed to be strikingly un-British in manners: "When he had his expenses from the 1951 Everest reconnaissance expedition queried by the British Himalayan Committed with the admonishment, 'Gentlemen pay for their own cups of tea,' Hillary replied, 'We're New Zealanders, not gentlemen.'"
6. We learned that new gadgets are not always the best gadgets (see above regarding oxygen tanks -- the May 27th group had the new-fangled "close-circuit" oxygen sets, whereas Hillary and Tenzing had simpler sets).
7. Kendal mint cakes. There was a reference to them -- we felt awesome that we know what these are.
8. We learned about "gentlemanliness," or sportsmanship. One article delved into the idea that by the ascent happening after the war, rather than while British Imperialism was still going strong, it brought with it, and fostered a different set of values. "Much later it emerged that the organisers of the expedition had fudged matters to obscure the fact that Hillary had reached the top first. No imperial climber would have felt the need. This, too, has a ring of modern sportsmanship, with credit shared, a team effort." While the British are sometimes mocked for this sense of self-promoting "gentlemanliness" (i.e. wouldn't it have been more gentlemanly for The Times NOT to have pressed this detail?), I think that sometimes we can hold values up as aspirations and acknowledge that it's okay to strive for an ideal without throwing in the towel before even beginning, for fear of looking like a hypocrite. Trying to be a better human is better than just saying: I will never be perfect, so I might as well be a complete and total wanker.
9. We learned that things aren't fair. Hillary was knighted, Tenzing was not. Just like the teammates who helped so much, but whose names are now mostly unknown, there is a great deal of unfairness in this recognition game. We talked about what the ideal here would be... We isolated the two ends of the spectrum: be bitter and/or depressed, OR feel awesome that you got to be close enough to feel the warmth of something great... let recognition alone, and focus on what you as a person achieved/were witness to. Again, that's an ideal... most likely there would be days of being pissed off and days of feeling elated. We hoped Tenzing was able to feel mostly happiness for his accomplishment. (On his behalf (I will continue to be ticked that he was over-looked).
10. In writing we talk a lot about weighting something. Don't sandwich your important bits -- they should be at the beginning, or if you really want them to carry weight, put them at the end (end of a line in poetry, end of a chapter, end of an essay, end of the book). And so we were impressed that a journalist would weight an article (i.e. conclude) thus: "The Sherpas... worried that with the ascent of Everest the climbers, and their money would be gone. They feared that Namche would remain a small impoverished village. A younger Hillary's diary entry might have implied he felt that was Namche's charm. The actions of the older Hillary -- now known to the locals as Burra-Sahib (big master) -- imply differently. Between the Hillary schools and the Hillary hospitals, the Hillary education trusts and the Hillary scholarships, this is a region that owes much to his quiet vision. Here, in the hidden valleys and hanging villages, they have a theory. They say that it was not chance or logistics or malfunctioning oxygen canisters that made Hillary and Tenzing the first. They say it was God; that God sent Hillary to the top of Everest, so that afterwards he could come to the bottom of Everest -- and help the Sherpas." Most events and inventions in history seem as though eventually they would have happened. If not this person, than that. But sometimes I like to be reminded that should a very specific person do a very specific thing, it no longer becomes just a thing -- that's when it becomes transcendent.
To be honest, I don't fully understand climbing in general, or really the Everest business specifically. But, like The Boy and The Dad, I love considering history. Being able to look back and say -- look, it happened after this, or because of this, and then later this happened. I love connections. I love how mysteries are unraveled. I don't love that they say Everest is now scattered with litter. I don't love the idea of Sherpas being mistreated. It's too complex to be able to say with good conscience: Hurrah! Let's celebrate that Mt. Everest was climbed, and continues to be climbed! But we did put May 29th on the calendar -- because we can say: "Hurrah! Once there were these two guys who did something really hard because of these interesting reasons, and here are some cool lessons..." And once a year, we will have reason to eat Kendal mint cake (as long as it's the kind covered in chocolate).
Whew! And then we arrived at our first activity of the day...
The pretty village of Bibury, where we walked in the misty rain along one of the Cotswold trails to get to the Trout Farm. Once there the children chucked pellets of food into the different ponds of trout in varying ages/sizes. The kids loved it. They also loved the "oreo" cows that were in the village. The girl-child, referencing our recent decision to call cows "coos," as were were taught in Scotland, said that they were "oreo coo-kies."
Since William Morris said that Bibury was "the most beautiful village in England, " our next stop naturally had to be his country home: Kelmscott Manor. We bribed the children to go with ice cream. As it turned out, The Girl quite liked the stop because the two lady volunteers (who were the sweetest, most chatty, most engaging creatures -- The Sister and I both said that we wanted to live next door to them) had a dog, named Calico, who was very attentive.
William Morris. Hmmm... I'm hoping that what sticks in our brains isn't that he knew his wife was having an affair with the friend that was living with them (Rosetti) and so moved the whole hot-mess out into the country so there would be less exposure. That's weird. I hope that what sticks instead is: how it was this country estate that was often the inspiration for his writing, as well as visual ideas for his art/designs for textiles and wallpaper. We learned about the process of color-blocking... Dying in indigo, then bleaching, then applying paint on the block stamp (made of pear wood) and stamping, carefully placing and stamping again, and again... on and on, then letting it dry, applying another color, and after lining it up perfectly stamping again. Such craftsmanship. Something to be proud of. The guide and I mused over what Morris would think of all the "Morris" items that are cranked out now. I hate to think of Morris being disappointed...
In fact, it came as such a blow to read a quote by him that said: "I have spent, I know, a vast amount of time designing furniture and wallpaper, carpets and curtains; but after all I am inclined to think that sort of thing is mostly rubbish, and I would prefer, for my part, to live with the plainest whitewashed walls and wooden chairs and tables." Rubbish? Come on William. William, don't do this to me -- to us. Tell me that they have their place. Tell me that sometimes they thrill you and other times you want something more subtle. I can get that. I, too, want the plain and unobstructed space free of material distractions that can feel like burdens... but I also like the cocoon of patterns -- the challenge of mixing patters with other patterns, and unique items that remind and conjure up... Anyway, it felt a bit mean for him to say: Hey, look at my beautiful design! And then when we go: ooh! ahhh! He says, Rubbish! You are a rubbish-lover!
While I could not take pictures, trust me that there was a lot of amazing things to take in. The place was built in the early 17th century, and Morris loved it because of its craftsmanship and because it hadn't been spoilt. There is an organic quality -- and, as we know, organic things are most sublime. There are Morris items, and windows that look over beautiful grounds -- including the enormous hedge in the shape of an enormous whale-serpent-beast. One thing that I liked best was that the worksheets that the children were given weren't the standard find-the-answer kind (which are great, they get the kids engaging), but rather had open-ended questions -- often asking them to compare something they were seeing to something in their own lives. At the end we went back to our two Chatty-Cathy's and they presented them with a leather bookmark. The Girl chose a brown one -- to remind her of the dog.
We went to a teashop in the beautiful village of Broadway, and felt very content with our sandwiches (though I got a strange omelet), and scones with jam and cream, and warm tea, as we watched the rain pouring down outside.
And then we had an invitation -- NOT a ticket -- because when Charles Paget Wade left his collection, Snowshill Manor, to the National Trust he just put forth few stipulations: the lighting was to stay the same as it was in his time (of course it's electric, but the wattage is kept low... bummer, because while pictures are allowed, flashes are not, but awesome because it's very atmospheric), and it wasn't to be treated like a "museum." For example, the items are not to be labeled. That not-labeling thing is wicked-brilliant -- it forces you to just take the object for what it is (which was his point: he wanted things to be collected for craftsmanship, color, and design, and they are arranged with those things in mind). This absorbing of the object is an important concept -- when I went to an educators tour of the New York Historical Society the director told us to teach our children that very thing: while you're in front of a one-of-a-kind object, just pay attention to the object, for you can read information about it anytime, anywhere. Snowshill Manor has it set up ideally, because for the times when you really want to learn more there are wonderful guides positioned everywhere, and it is so much fun to talk to them. Human interaction -- it's a beautiful thing. I love watching the kids ask questions, rather than brow-beating them into reading information placards.
The not-ticket was so pretty ("fantastic collection of craftsman-made curiosities and objects of beauty"), and when we went through the front door the kids got to mark our entry by using an old embosser with his initials. This is the type of place that makes 100% sense to us. The Dad and I have been before and when we talked about going The Boy was immediately smitten. Spoiler: it didn't disappoint.
Label alert! Every once in a while there would be a label and The Boy was like: boing! The guides just said that if CPW put it, it was fine, but they weren't to add any explanations.
Oh, yes. If there is ONE item in the entire world that The Boy has consistently said that he wants to acquire for his museum, it is Japanese Armor. Not only is there a room -- with sound effects -- that have dummies wearing Japanese Armor sitting around a fire, BUT at the end of our visit there was a REAL helmet and mask that could be tried on. I didn't even put up a fuss about him putting a mask up to his face (that had been put up to who-knows-whose faces). We all just let him have his moment of ecstasy. I'm glad that I got to see the reverent way that he was holding it, and placing it, and the trembling of his hand as he gave me his camera to take pictures of him. It was a big deal.
Filled with such appreciation for not just things, but what the things, and the collection of things represent -- curiosity, adventure, craft, intrigue, hope, fear, love -- really just tangible representation of the human experience -- we contentedly traipsed through the soggy gardens.
And then a decision had to be made. The park. Back in the village of Broadway, if you take a little path that is across the street from the Horse and Hound pub, there is a park. A wonderful park with crazy-fun equipment that we stumbled on three years ago when we were here as a family. It had just finished raining when we found it, so we were virtually the only people there, and we had a really magical experience. Do we try for it again? In the pouring rain? My inclination was not -- not to ruin a perfect memory with a memory full of mud and inaccessibility to the wet equipment, and sopping wet shoes (as it turns out, the mime shoes are like sponges). The Dad's inclination was to check it out. Bless him. By the time we got there, and walked there the rain had stopped coming down quite so hard. And once again, the park was empty. And so, while occasionally I would request that they not do something that would soak them through, for the most part we embraced being soggy, and created an even more magical memory than last time. Glory be.
Before we left a family showed up. They had a ball and went to the basketball courts and played together in the rain. I thought: that's who I want to be. The family that purposely heads to the park when it's raining and plays together. In the Cotswolds.
We drove through the village of Snowshill -- where Bridget Jones's Diary was filmed. One of those rare occasions when the actual location has the same emotional feel even though there isn't a soundtrack to enhance the experience.
I worry for my villages. How long can these stones hold up? How long until the roads are widened to fit more than one vehicle (and a second one all scrunched into the hedge, holding in its breath)? How long until all the storefronts look plastic? When I start to feel panicky about this I can only think: I have seen them, and now my kids have seen them. That is all that is within my scope. Charles Paget Wade must have shared similar thoughts, for he had the Latin phrase hung in his home: "For me today, for him tomorrow, after that who knows."
On the way back to our hotel in Swindon we were listening to David Bowie, and the kids decided that we all needed to come up with our alternative names (like Ziggy Stardust). After much discussion the end result was: Curlicue Mack (The Dad); Butterworthy Coo (The Mom); Sonic Swamp Fox (The Sister); Judd the Red Chicken (Judd the Red Chicken), and Cosmic Sheep. If we had to come up with a band name it would be Finlandia... for an inside joke that is too long for me to write, so I hope that I remember it.
Between showers and bits to eat before bed the kids watched a cool program on the telly called Signs of Spring. The one thing that they didn't pick up on was the sad science behind the show -- because the weather patterns are so off this year there is a major problem happening with the food chain. Insects haven't come out, so the smaller animals are starving, which is causing the larger animals to starve as well. What the kids saw was the sweet fawn being bottle fed and the young hedgehog being well taken care of. Humans doing kind things to protect the animals. This relationship between individuals doing amazing specific things (bottle-feeding fawns; ascending Mt. Everest; collecting beautiful items; being Ziggy Stardust) and humans doing horrific things (consumption/rape of environment and peoples; being Ziggy Stardust) is complex.
I'm fairly confident that The Boy and The Girl learned at least the equivalent today as they would have in school.
