Friends and relatives back in England often say to me that living in America can't be too bad because at least they speak the same language. I beg to differ. While it is of course "english" in the strictest sense of the word it is "american english" which is a completely different animal. As a prime example I present exhibit "a"



To those in the United States (more particularly in the South) this photograph is simply a boring one of a float in a parade. For those in England who read my blog they will no doubt fall off their chairs laughing after spewing large amounts of tea all over the computer screen. In England "bog" is rather unpleasant slang for the toilet, and telling someone to "bog off" is a way of saying something else without actually using foul language.

Here in the Southern US "bog" is a dish generally made with chicken and rice, and depending on the cook, can be rather tasty (I am not one of those who appreciate whole chickens, skin, bones etc., being thrown in, I prefer mine made by more gentile folk who remove the chicken from the bone.) Southern cooks take great pride in their "bog" being the best, and there are therefore "bog offs" whereby cooks all get together to compete for the best one (a little like a chilli cook off).

Still one has to understand that my Mother (who was visiting for this particular parade) does not know anything about chicken bog, and therefore was quite amused by the sign on the float. It was not however, as funny as the first time she heard them advertising a "shagging" competition.

The longer I have lived here I have of course become used to the language and can often be heard to refer to my handbag as a "purse" (which in England is the money holder which goes inside the handbag, not the handbag itself). I have not, I do not believe ever referred to my purse as a "pocketbook" though, because that just does not make sense. I mean how does that come about? I no longer ask for "half a lager" in a bar, I ask for a "baked potato" (as opposed to a jacket potato) with my dinner and am quite happy to pump gas (instead of petrol) into my car. There are some things though which I have steadfastly refused to change. The place attached to the side of the house which is suppose to store at least one car is not a "gar-ahge" it is, always has been and always will be, a "garrige" (in fact my husband now calls it that). I will not, unless I am dealing with someone if minimal intelligence refer to a "tom-ahto" as a "tom-ayto".

Of course in some instances I had no choice but to modify my language, for instance I learned very quickly that walking into a store and asking for "20 fags" was not acceptable and quickly changed my request to a "pack of cigarettes". Of course the whole language thing is further exacerbated by the fact that I live in North Carolina, which when it comes to accents appears to have a law unto itself. Sometimes I think that I understood people better when I lived in Hong Kong than I do here (but then again I also felt that way the first time I lived in Scotland). Still, my language, or more particularly my accent opens a lot of doors for me, seeing as people over here automatically assume that you are brilliant because you speak like a member of the Royal Family (they also assume because England is so small that we all know each other over there) but as for the language I am often tempted to quote the "Princess Bride" in my encounters with people "I don't think that means what you think it means."

Should originally been a blink in someones eye. Grandma, after the trauma of giving birth to my mother, got herself "fixed" but you know there are times that "fixed" doesn't always work. So along came Uncle Tommy. He and my mother fought like Tom and Jerry if they are to be believed, and yet they loved each other throughout their lives. Early in his life Uncle Tom learned that he had the knack of keeping customers happy. I believe (and my memory is a little fuzzy here) that it had something to do with Hoover Vacuumn cleaners (which would explain his strange habit of collecting them in his later years). He married and it didn't work out but a newly single Uncle Tommy met one Millicent Warburton of Heysham and one of the greatest love stories ever in the history of human love stories began. From there he and Millie had a hotel in Morecambe, which was wildly popular among the aged and to be honest probably infirm residents that inhabited it. Always wanting to help out his "big sis" Tom gave Mum and me and my sis a job at the hotel once it was up and running. I can't even remember what it was that I did, other than at one point I believe I was responsible for eyeing the potatoes However the memories I have of those days rattling about in the kitchen of The Sovereign were days of pure joy. One Sunday morning everyone was in the kitchen getting everything ready for Sunday lunch, which of course is a major meal in the UK. Milly was making her famous sherry trifle, and at the time had added the sherry to the sponge cakes in the bottom of the large bowls. At some point my Mum wandered past the bowls and added the sherry to the sponge cakes, at which point Tom wandered past the bowls and well you get the idea. By the time the trifle was served to the residents that afternoon it was about 100% proof. While Tom and Mil were at the Sovereign their first born Katie arrived into the world. I remember being at the Christening, lord I was still a child at the time, but I remember that christening party in the "basement" (the rooms where they lived while the "hotel" part was above). The years that followed Tom and Mil bought various properties not least of which was "The Lindale Inn" a small village pub in the even smaller village of Lindale near Grange over Sands. My mum got remarried when I was 14 or so and when she and Harry went off on their honeymoon I went to live with Tom and Mil in the Lindale Inn. I learned lots of things at Lindale, not least of which was how to climb the huge oak tree in the car park and that Katie, when she wanted to be was wicked with a hose. After the honeymoon Mum and I would travel up to Lindale at the weekends, Mum would cook and I would wait tables at the pub and we would sleep in the apartments at the back. We took Danny our beloved brindle boxer with us at the time, until he died one weekend, there in Lindale, and there he was buried. Tommy was the consumate landlord, he could talk to any customer about any subject, for hours on end. As the years went by me and mum could not longer work there and he employed various other people. As time wore on he bought the Kingfisher Restaurant in Sandside and turned a tiny little single-wide trailer type of diner into a restaurant where people would make reservations one year in advance. While they had the Kingfisher, and some apartments in Morecambe, and probably some other properties, Tommy bought a pub in the middle of nowhere. I asked him why he would do such a thing, you know considering that they already had so much on their plate, he told me "Millie didn't have anything to worry about while she was sleeping so I had to give her something". Of course when he bought said pub he was already up to his neck to the bank for the other properties he owned when he went to them for a loan for the new pub, when the bank manager got a little difficult with him Uncle Tommy said to him "listen pal you do what I want you to do or I will take my overdrafts elsewhere". This story is probably rhetorical, but I can just imagine Tom saying just that to the bank manager and in the end getting just what he wanted.

He called me Tilly, I have no idea why, from being the tiniest of babies he called me Tilly, and he was the only one who was allowed to call me Tilly to be honest. Noone else could get away with it. My Aunt Dot always called me "Dawn Louise" and noone else could get away with that and he called me Tilly. He was the most wonderful of persons, of that there is no doubt. I remember one moment, a silly little moment really when you think about it. Katie had broken a toy, and she wanted it fixed, she took it to here Dad and said something childish about wanting it "fixed" Tom said "would you like Daddy to repair it for you?" "it's broken" Katie said "would you like Daddy to repair it for you" he repeated, "Yes" said Katie. I was always fascinated by that, by how he would use the correct word other than the regular childish word "fix". Tommy was like that though, as much as he loved children he would treat them like adults and would expect them to behave like adults (within reason of course). I do not ever remember him speaking down to me as a child, he always spoke to me with respect, he always treated me as an equal when obviously I was not.

I know it is probably the wrong thing to say but the best most wonderful memories I have of my Uncle Tommy is of the entire family getting happily, screamingly drunk together. Especially at the Lindale Inn, staff night, Saturday night, after we had closed, mum would cook up a huge pan of stew or hot pot or something and we would all sit around a massive table and eat and drink and get blisteringly drunk. I know that is really not PC right now, but you had to be there, you had to have lived my life with my family, and more's the point you had to have known Tommy. Personally I shall be eternally grateful that I knew him.

We had planned a trip to the mountains last weekend. I was going to take a well deserved day off on Friday and we were going to go and look at the leaves so to speak. I was very excited, not only had I never been up to the mountains during fall colour time but we had never, in all the time that she has been visiting us here, been able to take Mum to the mountains so I really wanted to show her Cherokee. I woke fairly early on Friday morning and heard that Mum and Norman were already up and about. Mum came into the bedroom with half a cup of strong sweet tea and said simply "he's gone Dawn". In those few words I knew I had lost my beloved Uncle Tommy. It took a while for those words to sink in and I sat, with Mum for a few minutes while she wiped the tears away from her eyes. I didn't want to cry, I knew it would make things worse for her so I just sat and cuddled her while she wept gently. I got "busy" then, getting ready to take the car in for a service prior to its long drive. As I pottered around down stairs I suddenly remembered a dream I had had the night before.

Me and Mum had gone to the hospital to see him. As we walked down the long corridor to where I presumed his room was we saw him. He wasn't in a bed or in a room, he was sat in a waiting room with some other people. I looked at him and smiled "well look at you, you don't look sick to me you look just fine" and he did, he looked as he always did in life, a sparkle in his eye and a mischievous grin on his lips. "That's because I am fine" he said to me. As I recalled the dream I realized that more than likely it wasn't a dream at all, it was his way of letting me know that everything was going to be okay and he was "fine." I told Mum, and she knew immediately what I knew. That he was "fine" and that we should not so much grieve his passing as celebrate his life which he lived to the fullest every single day. I shall miss him terribly.

The drive to the mountains was somewhat subdued as one can only imagine but I could feel my spirits rising as we approached the foothills and the car began to climb. Small dots of colour could be seen in the trees but the majority of them were still green. There was a point though, (and I cannot remember at which point in the road) where we turned a curve and suddenly there were the Blue Ridge mountains stretched out before us. Colour was everywhere, as if a huge patchwork quilt had been laid across them.

By the time we got to Maggie Valley it was dark so we quickly checked into our Motel and set about finding some dinner. After dinner we were all weary so we took Mum and Norman back to the motel and Nick and I went out for a beer. After a couple of glasses of wine with dinner and then a few beers the emotion inside of me welled up and spilled over. I cried and cried, and then when I was done I cried a little more. I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I woke and saw in the mirror that I looked like I had done several rounds with Mike Tyson the night before. My eyes were puffy and almost swollen shut. No amount of a cold face cloth would do anything with them so I went outside to get Mum and Norman for breakfast. This is the sight that greeted me.



I stood for a moment and breathed deeply of the cool mountain air and took in the sight. We set off for Cherokee and in search of breakfast by way of the Blue Ridge Parkway. It truly was a sight to behold. The colours were intoxicating. Greens, golds, reds, rusts, every colour one could imagine leaves turning was there. Around every corner there was another spectacular view and thankfully the weather was clear and you could see for miles. Taking photographs was a little like shooting fish in a barrel. Even through the car window while moving.



Eventually we got to Cherokee and sought out breakfast, not an easy task considering that the entire population appeared to have decided to visit Cherokee that weekend. After breakfast we headed to the Cherokee Village for a tour and then let Mum do her Mum thing, that is dragging Norman round the museum. A little time for lunch, then for shopping and we headed to Waynesville for happy hour at the Irish Pub. Dinner and then sleep. It had been a good day and the various driving times had given Mum the opportunity to regale us with stories of her and Tommy as children. I think it helped her cope.

On Sunday we got up with the intention of heading to Grandfather Mountain by way of the Parkway but unfortunately after a leisurely breakfast we determined that time was not on our side and heading back home once we reached Ashville was the best course of action. Luckily I got the opportunity to stop several times and take more photographs, as the scenery just kept getting better and better.




When we got home I quickly began an upload of my photographs and got on with making dinner for us and of course feeding the pets. When I went back to the computer I briefly checked the shots on the screen and then merrily deleted them from my memory card. A short time later I went back to print off some shots for Mum and couldn't find them. They were gone. The computer it would appear had eaten them. I was beside myself. After a severe panic session the following day I managed to get some help from some very nice photography friends of mine and the photographs were retrieved. Much to everyone's relief not least mine. It does prove one point though. When you are uploading photographs of things that you cannot simply go back and "reshoot" do it VERY VERY CAREFULLY.

Tomorrow is the funeral. I think I shall attend in spirit and post some of my fondest memories of my dearest Uncle Tommy here. I think he would like that.

another one to place in the bag of diamonds. We were down at the lake just recently. I woke early one morning, and wandered out there to the edge of the lake in my sleeping t-shirt, nothing more. Lucky my pooch was with us so he followed me down to the lake and spent quite some time sniffing around at the dead shellfish and stuff on the "beach". As I stood there, just contemplating the world as one does first thing in the morning I heard a screech. I was not sure what the screech was but looked overhead, at first I thought it was vultures, but they were talking to each other and as my old eyes adjusted I saw that it was a pair of Bald Eagles... first time in my life that I have ever seen bald eagles outside of captivity. I was beside myself with joy, of course I had no camera with me, I was stood there, in a t-shirt, shoeless, and I watched as those magnificent birds flew over my head talking to each other. Another diamond for the bag.

moments that you could recall, like diamonds in a bag, that you could reach in and select a single moment in time, what would your moments be? Would they be seconds or minutes with a member of your family? Would they be a second or a moment in which you had witnessed something wonderful, would it be a second, a brief second that you felt, for once in your life that the world belonged to you? Would you, thinking about it, reach into the bag and grab the moment when you woke early, ambled out to the world, yawning and sleepy eyed and saw the most incredible sunrise you have ever seen, where you converted that moment into a diamond and placed it into the bag. Would you, like I, see those moments that capture us, that immediately ingrain themselves in our memories... The only difference between me and you is that I am a photographer, and I try to capture those moments. Your bag of diamonds is my 4GB memory card. If we go through our lives without accepting those moments then we are dead to be honest, those moments are what makes us human, they are what makes us alive, what makes us feel. Live them, feel them, believe them.