It is amazing to me. When I first moved to this country from the UK I viewed the homes decorated with lights during the christmas season as silly. "Pah" I would say in a loud and hearty voice "look at those idiots, wasting all that electricity and can you imagine what their bills look like?" My husband would listen to me silently, head bowed, wishing that he could perhaps put up a single strand of lights on a bush outside in some sort of sign to others of his kind that he had not completely been trodden down by the oppressor. Then one January I was wandering round the garden center at Lowes and I came upon their christmas clearance section. They were selling those nice icicle lights at 75cents a box. So there stood I, conflicted beyond belief, torn between icicle lights at 75cents a box, in other words the greatest bargain on the planet, and my thrifty nature when it comes to conserving electricity. I bought ten boxes of the lights and that year the house was delicately decorated with the icicle lights and very pretty it looked too, my husband grinned smugly whenever he came home from work. A while later I happened by the Salvation Army thrift store when it just happened to be having a huge yard sale, boxes and boxes of christmas decorations all part of a $5.00 bag sale, in other words whatever you can stuff inside a brown paper bag is $5.00. Do you know how many sets of lights you can get inside a brown paper grocery bag? No? Well let me tell you it is lots. The next year I decided in my wisdom that my alien yard statue (who is precious by the way) just HAD to be surrounded in green lights and I also thought how cool it would to have a nice big green X behind him on the tree (for the X-files of course) as well as wearing a santa hat and carrying a candy cane. So a trip to Target was in order. Now let me say, that me going to the christmas light section of Target at this time of year is simply dangerous, kid in a candy store, alcoholic in a brewery, dog in a butchers shop, you name the cliche that is me in the christmas light section of Target this time of year. Last year I made the mistake of going to Family Dollar after christmas and found a lighted buck and doe at 75% off. Then of course I went to Goodwill, looking for something unrelated and I found a set of three lighted christmas trees for the yard on sale (on sale at Goodwill even). It used to be that I owned ONE extension cord, which I used to power my nice little (and for my tiny frame manageable) black and decker electric weed-eater. I checked this weekend as I was getting my supplies together that I now have ten extension cords, of various sizes, lengths, power point availability etc. I have also got the entire shebang connected so well that my entire display is now turned on with the flick of one switch on the porch. Only this Friday I went to a local auction that I attend whenever I have the time and there, like a jewel, sat a cardboard box full of lights, a swift dollar bid later and they were mine. You have no idea the joy it gave me when I plugged each set in and discovered that they all worked, oh joy! It has now got to the point that my ambition, which with my thrifty yard sale, auction and Target shopping will be achieved, is that come Christmas there will be two things on earth that can be seen from space, the Great Wall of China and my house. Right now I don't even have all the lights up as the vinyl siding men will be visiting soon so I don't want to make their job more difficult, so my other lights sit dim, and miserable in their boxes at the moment waiting for the moment when I will hang them and plug them in. Of course my mother, being a thrifty sort herself, berates my apparent lack of sense when it comes to christmas, I have an excellent excuse however, whenever she tells me that "your electric meter will be spinning around like a top" I tell her I am okay, and besides, its not my fault, I have been taken over by the pod people.

Isn't it amazing how a love of a thing will stay with you throughout your life no matter what happens. My recent (okay the past two years) love of bird feeding and photographing my birds was a love inside me that had been there for a long time but had sat dormant. Cast your mind back if you will, it is 1988 and I am serving at MHQ (Maritime Headquarters) Pitreavie, the headquarters for the Flag Officer Scotland and Norther Ireland as well as the Nato headquarters. My desk just happened to be in the curve of a large bay window, outside of which sat a rather nice section of garden which was the entire surroundings of MHQ Pitreavie. It occurred to me, as I sat gazing out of my window that a bird feeder might look quite nice out there, not only to feed the birds but to alleviate my boredom when having to "weed" classified files (which is a long and painstaking task that without a doubt will make your head hurt). As it was I had a couple of tame sailors who were good with a hammer and nails and to my delight they constructed a simple "bird table" for me, a simple piece of wood attached to a post, sunk into the ground. Once the bird table was in place I bought the required amount of seed and scattered it on the table. It was a success, the birds loved it. As time progressed I added other things, suet feeders, half coconuts and soon not only the birds but the local squirrels would visit, both grey and red. The funniest sight I have ever seen, I think in my life, is when a grey squirrel encountered half a coconut. The look on the animals face was priceless "THAT is the biggest acorn I have ever seen!" whereupon the squirrel removed the half coconut from it's hanger and then proceeded, over the course of a couple of hours at least, to remove the half coconut to its nest. There was a great deal of shuffling involved, hold coconut under one arm, hop a little, coconut slips, transfer half coconut to other arm, shuffle a bit, attempt to climb tree, drop coconut, retrieve coconut with teeth and arms, attempt to push coconut up tree with nose and arms, drop coconut, retrieve coconut, shove coconut up tree with back legs, drop coconut, grab coconut with teeth and front legs again and push VERY SLOWLY up tree, inch, by inch, by inch, until FINALLY you get it in your nest. I do not think that I will ever forget that afternoon, in my office, watching the squirrel attempt to safely get the coconut home. And I do not think I will every forget those wonderful days when the ground was covered with three or four inches of snow watching my birds, out of my office window eating the food that I had provided for them. And that is why, now, I spend way too much money on bird food, and spend an inordinate amount of time at my kitchen window watching my birds feeding. There is just an enormous amount of satisfaction to be had when the world is freezing to see a bird stuffing his or her face with seed that you have provided knowing that without your help the birds would be cold and hungry, scratching about in the snow for the odd seedhead that is not yet frozen. There are those who say that we shouldn't feed wild birds, as it makes them dependent on us, but it is a cold heart indeed who can see a bird in the snow and not think that some really good food could help at that point.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home last night. In the window was a large sign "half fresh pork picnics $1.99/lb" "Yum" I thought to myself "what could be more appetizing than a half fresh pork picnic." I mentioned to the girl at the register that perhaps they might want to replace the sign, pointing out that selling "half fresh" pork picnics might not be a good marketing ploy and mores the point might actually be illegal. She looked at me blank. That is the funny thing with signs. People merrily put them up with little or no regard to spelling or grammar, there have been numerous examples posted on the internet of hilarious signage that people have quite innocently (and in some cases not so innocently) put up. However, it occurred to me when reading a grocery store flyer the other day how silly the "signs" sometimes are. I am always fascinated for instance when they advertise produce as "grade A fancy" (strawberries for example), okay so what if grade A fancy strawberries are 4.00/lb, what if I don't want grade A fancy strawberries, what if I actually want the Grade B not so fancy strawberries, can I get them for 3.00/lb? or better yet what if I want the Grade C, homely strawberries can I get them for 2.00/lb? or as I am a thrifty sort can I actually buy the Grade D downright ugly strawberries? Nope there is no option, so why go to the effort of telling me that the only strawberries you are selling are "Grade A Fancy" And lets face it what is a "fancy" strawberry? I mean a strawberry is pretty much a strawberry, I would admit that a strawberry wearing a small hat would be "fancy", or even embellished with a bow tie, but other than that, a strawberry is a strawberry, how on earth could it be described as "fancy?" According to my dog chewed dictionary "fancy" means "the capacity for imaginative vision" further down the descriptions appears "not plain" so obviously what the grocery stores are selling here are "not plain" strawberries, so have the strawberries been to strawberry college and therefore possess a degree in "strawberryism?" Or perhaps, as I suspect, the people who write the ads are possessed with "the capacity for imaginative vision?" thinking perhaps that if we feel we are buying "grade A fancy" strawberries we are perhaps somehow superior to our neighbours who, shopping at the store down the street, are reduced to buying "plain" strawberries, and who shuffle back to their hovel, which is lit by only a small candle, and once home, cower round a small fire made of twigs while they consume their "plain" strawberries as the pigs and cows bed down in their living rooms. While we, with our "grade A fancy" strawberries return to our luxurious single family home and consume our "grade A fancy" strawberries in the decadence of our great room in front of our big screen tv, wondering for just a moment how those who are unable to buy "grade A fancy" strawberries manage to survive? Madison Avenue amazes me sometimes, in fact I actually think that Madison Avenue is another planet, and has about as much understanding of your average every day human being as does your average every day gnat to be honest. And I know you are thinking how the hell is she going to illustrate this post with a photograph? Okay you got me.... but let me think about it....

Hey Madison Avenue get a clue!

It is amazing to me how my pets, being fascinated with everything their "pet" human does, are bereft when I have to use the bathroom (most pet owners are familiar with this problem, hence the now famous "letter to my pets" section "there is no secret exit from the bathroom" I hope you have read it, it is hilarious), where was I? Oh yes, when the urge takes me to the bathroom inevitably a cat will manage to slither through the closing door and seeing me sat down (a rare occasion) will decide that is a perfect time to jump on my knee and knead, this of course being an incredibly inopportune time to knead because invariably my knee is sans clothing and they of course are therefore kneading into bare flesh. My two boxers cannot abide that I am in the bathroom and actually doing something without their being aware of it, however, their solution to the problem differs. Judy chooses to address the problem of me being behind a closed door by sitting outside the door and whimpering gently, sounding for all the world as if her entire universe has just been taken from her. Cueball however does not do the "whimpering by the door" thing too well, oh of course he tries it for a few minutes then, when it becomes obvious to him that it is not going to work he just uses brute force and shoulder charges the door open, this despite the fact that the door is locked from the inside. Cueball is like that, he tries the gentle way of things to begin with but having a short attention span (that of a gnat for instance), he usually resorts to brute strength to get the job done, and lets face it, brute strength is something that Cueball has in spades. I shall illustrate with another story. Cueball, for some reason that only Cueball knows, will occasionally take it into his head to attack Lucky (who you will remember is my lab cross who is just like a miniature lab). So, to ensure the health and welfare of both Lucky and me (seeing as pulling a dog who easily weighs more than I do off another dog is I am sure not good for my heart), Cueball goes to "Cueball jail" while I take Lucky outside. Cueball jail consists of three chairs around the piano, inside which Cueball is attached to a chain attached to the piano leg. It works well most times, most times Cueball will accept his temporary time out and sit there sulking. One day however something must have piqued his interest while he was in Cueball jail (I think his favourite squeaky toy was just out of his reach), a normal dog would bark, whimper, or generally make it known that he wasn't happy about not being able to move, not Cueball. When I returned to the house from the back garden to bring Lucky safely inside Cueball and the piano were halfway across the living room and Cueball was quite happily chewing on his squeaky toy. The boy scares me sometimes.

Strange coincidence happened today. We had scheduled the deposition of a personal injury client of ours. Opposing counsel had requested the deposition and had therefore ordered the court reporter. So our client shows up, a darling English lady who had moved from Bournmouth to the US in the 1940s, (a GI bride), along with her sister in tow for hand holding duties (also from Bournmouth). The court reporter arrives, she is a familiar face, another English lady who had been in the US for at least 20 years. So there we all were in the reception area yapping away to each other talking about the differences living in the US when my boss arrived. "It's your worst nightmare boss, a room full of English women" Then opposing counsel arrived, a very pleasant young attorney that I have worked with on numerous cases. As he sat down for the deposition he joked "well I think *my boss* is the only person here that was born in the US" turns out opposing counsel was born in Canada. However, we talked that day about what is "home" is where you were born "home" or is where you have put down roots "home?" I was born in the UK (obviously), however as a child I moved a great deal, until my mother remarried when I was fourteen. At eighteen I joined the Royal Navy so as a matter of course I moved every two or three years. When I moved to the US in 1991 my husband had already bought us a house, which I loved on first sight. When my husband was unceremoniously thrown out of the marine corps as a budget cut (thanks Bill Clinton - NOT), after 16 years of loyal service, we tried to figure out whether to stay in Jacksonville or move to Oregon (where my husband was from). The winner of the argument was that being in North Carolina I was 3,000 miles away from my mother (in England) and he was 3,000 miles away from his mother (in Washington State). So we stayed. We have been in this house for 14 years, we have been through hurricane after hurricane and THE hurricane Floyd after which we rebuilt the house from the walls up. When the court reporter asked me today "if anything happened to your husband would you move home?" I thought for a while, I mulled the thoughts over in my brain, I thought of my house, my pets, my gardens, I thought of the wonderful relationships I have with the people in the court community, I thought of how familiar I am with all of the attorneys, paralegals, clerks and judges and said, in all honesty "I am home." While England will always be my "homeland" and will always be a place I want to spend a great deal of time to visit with my mother and my sister and my other relatives, I think at this point my roots have gone deep into this soil, and even without the anchor of my husband, it would be hard to pull them up. So, what is the answer to the question? I don't know, but I do know that this english rose was transplanted to the US, and despite a little transplant shock her roots eventually reached down into the soil and took hold, now she blooms, and now her roots are set. This is home, and this, will always be home until it is time to "go home" and at that point, my bones (or my ashes I haven't decided yet) will go home to the Church yard at St. Mary's in Warton in Lancashire, where my ancestors lie, where the ancestor's of George Washington and my husband lie, and where I am meant to be, I think it is only right. Until they change the law and allow people to be buried in their gardens, then England is where I shall lie.

What me an Immigrant?