... and since then ... 2015

2015 will forever be a year of mixed reviews.  I finally was ready to hand in my Intent to Complete, a very scary document which meant you are now a grown-up and are ready to defend all your work. As I waited for my Viva date to be announced, Bill returned to the UK and we travelled.

To the left, my Thesis (Novel and Defense) submitted and ready for review. It is a very scary, humbling, and exciting time to actually see your work transformed into a bound copy. This represents three years of hard work, the support of family and friends, new friends and old, research and travel to weave my story, 'Standing Stone', using three time periods, three countries, three women, a murder mystery, a romance (several), myth, legend, and history, and more happy accidents than I can express. Then comes the defense...

London

Aberystwyth

Tregaron, Wales

However, having submitted, we travelled to relieve the stress and prepare for the upcoming Viva. Here is a kaleidoscope of pictures.

Stonehenge, UK

Giant's Causeway, North Ireland

Sheelanagig in Hereford, England

River Avon near Stratford

We traveled to Scotland, Ireland, North Ireland, and throughout the south and midlands of the UK. I wrote a whole chapter while at Stonehenge for my sequel, 'Lament'. We visited the famous but not only Sheelanagig (seen above on a church wall) and left a stone cairn in Exeter Cathedral. We visited Gretna Green in Scotland while I thought of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice and, of course, I traveled with my very own Mr. Darcy.

Exeter Cathedral, England

 June 26th came upon us so quickly and my Viva dawned bright and sunny. Nervous doesn't really do justice to the butterflies which had taken up residence in my stomach. I have very little memory of the actual process (probably a blessing) except that upon conclusion, I was asked if I wanted the good news or the bad. The good, I replied. "Congratulations Dr. Nerenberg." And then I was shaking hands and wondering what the bad would entail. I needed to rewrite my Defense and had six months to do so. The corrections to my 404 page novel took a day to correct. The defense, (99 pages/25 of Bibliography) needed reworking as I was asked to compare, contrast, and place my novel alongside contemporary and classic authors and their works, rather than examine the psychological impact of story on brain function and how that relates to works of classic. Sigh! Never fear, rewriting the defense taught me a great deal and although fraught with angst and the stretching of my brain, I was glad in the end for the additional understanding I gained.

Wisely, especially after viewing the emotional roller coaster I'd been on, my husband whisked me away to Killiane Castle, Ireland, for three days and nights. Pure Heaven! I felt like a real life princess in a very surreal world. Then back to Aberystwyth to complete packing, shipping boxes, giving away food and household goods, tearful goodbyes, and flying home. It seemed as if I was being torn in two, for while eager to get home, I had also developed a second life in the three years I'd spent amongst the Welsh, a world full, rich and filled with both amazing people and self-discovery.

Once home I was zombified (surprised AutoCorrect didn't catch that one!) for a month. Then began my second spate of exhaustive research, reading, writing, feelings of confusion, thoughts of giving up again, insights, and just sitting in a chair and rewriting my defense outline for the gazillioneth time.

 My professor, Dr Rosie Dub, was an angel, who provided a lot of handholding. Thank you, Rosie. Finally, I was facing the holidays and had to submit, print, and deliver my hard bound copies to the English Department for final approval. I made my deadline with near three weeks to spare. 


The New Year began and we waited to see what 2016 would bring. It brought a letter, word that my work had been accepted and that in July the title of Doctor of Philosophy would be bestowed upon me. O frabjous day, calloo, callay!

Killiane Castle, Drinagh, Ireland 

January 2013 - Home to Home - Part I

Clock Tower near Birmingham, England

 An epic journey home to the West Coast of America marked the beginning of my holiday hiatus.  Thinking to be quite clever, I spent a bit more on tickets, choosing to fly to Amsterdam and then take a direct 13 hour flight to Portland.  Alas, arriving at Birmingham hours early to accommodate international travel, I was greeted with the news that it was snowing in Amsterdam.  Lovely, I innocently thought.  Not only will I see the country of my forefather's origins but it will be very Christmassy!  This is, however, when I learned that planes do not fly in the snow if they can help it and that one of the things that the Brits do best is "queue."

Used to American efficiency and a certain amount of impatience in being thwarted by one's travel plans (did I say that nicely?), no one else in line seemed to be at all surprised when we had to wait for someone from KLM to show up to reroute us... all 200 plus of us.  I fortunately was in the beginning of the line (early arrival has its perks). The someone from KLM showed up and was just that... one...  someone.  There were actually two but one was shunted off to the side to handle elite ticket holders, class will out!

 I met the loveliest people in line: a young blond, blue-eyed student going home to Finland and three British South Africans journeying to visit family.  The nearly three hours in queue passed pleasantly.  I was rerouted to Dublin, a four hour layover, then Boston, and finally home.  Flight time was up 50%.  So much for expensive tickets.  But at least I was going home or so I thought.

Flight into the morning

Arriving in Boston, I was told to take the shuttle to the ticket counter.  Being inexperienced, I did.  "I'm sorry, madam, but your gate is closed."  "Yes," I replied hopefully.  "Call them and tell them I'm here and have them hold it please."  "That is not possible.  The gate is closed."  "My luggage is on that flight.  I've been in these clothes for 24 hours.  I have no American money with me. Can I speak with your supervisor?" My American impatience was beginning to crack. Failing to impact Boston, I began to cry (didn't work!).  "I don't even have a toothbrush," I exclaimed.  Boston mumbled something about not scheduling adequate time between international and domestic flights, arranged to put me in a hotel overnight, gave me a toothbrush and a small packet of sundries, and a $6 meal voucher for dinner and another for breakfast.  I walked to the hotel, dropped what little I had in my room and went downstairs to eat.  $6 voucher + Boston prices = a very nice dinner salad and since they didn't take pounds Sterling, I now have $1.42 on my American Express card.  The next day I was rerouted to Atlanta, Georgia, before being sent homeward.  Fourty-six hours all totaled!

And the hours traveling faded like dew on a sunny morning when my little three-year-old grandson rounded the corner of the kitchen and saw his Nana sitting on the kitchen floor playing with his cousin.  He looked like a young fawn startled in a thicket.  I raised my arms.  He ran and buried himself in my lap.  The journey... what journey?  That moment filled my heart, healed my aching body, and brought me fully home.

Please join me next week for Part II of "Home to Home" or "What I Did On My Christmas Vacation."  See you then.

Week 9/10 - Pulling Out the Stops

Manor House, Godstone, England

Week Nine and part way through Week Ten.  Hectic, stress, frenetic, and overwhelm seem to be the uppermost words that spring to mind.

Although today is a glorious blue with a biting cold in Aber, I sit inside after a hasty bus trip into town to get more ink for the printer.  I've finally run out of ink!

As the semester slides toward the holiday break, I've just completed a 2497 word essay (Do NOT exceed 2500 or you will be marked down) for my PGM0120 module on Research.  Although only 15 workshops were necessary, I attended thirty and listened to another that was recorded earlier.  Still a glutton for punishment and over-achiever.

Stairway to the theatre in the School of Art

I also sent in my Abstract of 180 words (Not to exceed 200 word count) on my novel and planned analysis, which is part Critical Theory and part Self-Analysis of my writing process and will hopefully challenge how Classic is defined in literature.

Then there was PGM0410, Ways of Reading, a study in the various theories of deconstruction.  I chose to write on Narratology as it is theory of the narrative.  Relatively new as theories go, I completed 3497 words just three words short of the max thereby preventing me again from losing points.  The UK take their word counts very seriously.  As I compared Bleak House by Charles Dickens, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, and Sepulchre by Kate Mosse, I began to get the hang of foreshadowing and backshadowing, framing a story, genre, as well as verbal patterning and motifs used.

I eventually took the plunge and did an analysis of the opening paragraphs in my novel, Standing Stone.  I read the words as a reader coming fresh to the page rather than a writer, who has toiled with each word, trying to make sense of the story that likes to peek-a-boo around corners, show itself as I drift off to sleep, or present itself in the chance remark of another student, professor, or perfect stranger.  I was pleased for these few paragraphs, 215 words, passed the litmus test.  I could see motifs, a frame, foreshadowing of events... and, of course, knowing the end, I could see that I had backshadowed the eventual outcome.  Happy Dance!

Theatre or Classroom in School of Art.
(Rich and Ash in front row)

 Then, of course, was the fine tuning of just over 4000 words of the novel to hand in to my second-reader.  That will happen shortly, possibly tomorrow, just one more review.  The assignments (over 10,000 words) are ticked off my rather lengthy list and I can now hopefully settle into a daily writing pattern, getting to know my characters and telling their interwoven story as they whisper to me.  Another author, Pete Fromm, said once that he had the best job in the world because he got to go to the basement and play with his imaginary friends each day.  Lovely.  I so understand.

Maybe I can do this, I said to myself, referring to my great undertaking.  For cheek-by-jowl with the euphoria of handing in assignments early and tickets for home taped just above my computer, the PhD is a solitary process.  Incoming students are warned that this honing of skill, this laser focus on becoming an expert in one's chosen discipline, can consume both life and the art of living.  Choices must be made and consequences faced.

Thanksgiving this past week dawned without fanfare and sans turkey.  I had leftover stir fry before which I presented my Visa to the proper campus authority which will enable me to return home next month.  However, despite feeling sorry for myself that I was going to be alone, I was grateful for modern technology and the chance to see everyone via Skype.  My daughter held her iPhone with me on video chat from Wales, while my son-in-law held a second smart phone connecting my husband from Oregon so that we could join the sixty gathered in Utah.  After going round the room and giving each a chance to say what they were grateful for... a new baby coming, religious freedom, being together, "my smokin' hot wife," family, country, and, of course, the food, which threatened to collapse several tables, the two phones were held together for a Thanksgiving kiss across the miles.  It made me smile, lessened the ache caused by distance, and made me ever so much more grateful as I listened to and was included in our joint and heartfelt family prayer.  Thank you sweetheart, children, grandchildren, extended family, and friends for your love and support.  Families are truly forever.

Aberystwyth Bay/the Irish Sea.  View from the cafeteria.

Sunset over the campus on my walk home tonight.

Dear Readers:  I plan on a bit of a hiatus while I return home to enjoy the Christmas season with family.  See you in the New Year.  May your holidays be joyous and 2013 filled with blessings.

Week 6 - In Being Different, We Are The Same

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by

demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die,

it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other,

we may even become friends.

Maya Angelou 

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/travel.html#HyCYYFCOvILyizgV.99  

Mile Post

Aberystwyth Train Depot

Travel, it is said, expands one horizons.  It does.  The train station at Aberystwyth transports one not only to parts north and then across the UK but it also pleases the eye and enlivens the imagination.  Yet those who live here, just see it as Aber with the glass-sided building being merely a second hand shop or Charity Shop as it is called here, rather than a repository of human stories.  I feel I've stepped back in time and would be unsurprised by a horse and buggy clip-clopping down the street.  It is becoming more than quaint.  It is becoming comfortable.  The sign post above, I pass by on my way to classes.

Language can be a bit of a barrier.  The neighbor referred the other day to a person being "turfed out."  Immediately golf course came to mind.  Must have been the look on my face as an explanation quickly followed that they had been evicted.  Teaching "your grannie to suck eggs" is to try to do the impossible.  I felt, however, that this expression translated pretty straight across when asked by a professor in class if I knew to what he was referring.  We all laughed.

What perhaps doesn't translate is distance.  In the US, at least in Oregon, we think nothing of visiting Portland and returning in the same day.  Approximately 90 miles away, it takes an hour fifty minutes to two hours each way.  This past Sunday found me on the way to Merthyr Tidfyl (Mur tha Tid vil), a journey of under 50 miles as the crow flies; however, crows did not design the roads.  Sheep did.  It was just over two hours when we arrived and it was said that we made excellent time.  There are A roads and B roads and motor ways.  It is difficult to upgrade to wider roads as porch steps often front the existing roads.  From Aber one must travel east for an hour so that one can travel north and south.  It is one of the prices for living in another place in time.  I for one enjoyed the ride and provided great entertainment to the others by exclaiming over hedgerows, sheep, and general terrain; and the fact that, when we arrived, there was actually a water cooler.  "Jan, you are hilarious."  "Well, it's the first one I've seen in Wales."  It was.  The Welsh do not have water coolers in their buildings.  The water comes in separate faucets sporting either frigid or scalding water (it actually steams coming out) and never the taps shall meet.  I can now wash my face but it is a process involving great timing.  When I asked about this, the estate keeper explained that having a joined faucet was a bit unsanitary; but that in the newer, posh homes, it appeared to be catching on.

 The first time I went to the market to get eggs, I couldn't find them.  When I asked, I was told to turn around for the eggs were right there on the shelf.  "Oh," I continued.  "I mean the real ones.  The refrigerated ones."  I consider myself moderately intelligent but that is not the look I received.  "Eggs are not refrigerated," I was told.  I wondered how all of the UK was not dead.  They don't refrigerate them when they get them home either.  They vaccinate their chickens against salmonella.  Clever.  After two weeks, the eggs were still quite good.  However, old habits won out and the new batch are now safely stored in the refrigerator.

Bacon is called rashers.  American bacon is called streaky bacon because it has so much fat in it.  The students, who have spent time in the US, love our crispy bacon and wish it was easier to purchase here.  I, however, love rashers.  Less fat and the flavor is amazing.  I've used it as a base for a bean stew as well as for potato soup and in a sudo-German potato salad.  Lovely.  Just lovely.

Tonight I try to make a lamb stew.  Wish me luck for I've never done it before.


Outside my window there is a cacophony of gwacks each morning.  I've been trying to figure out how to reproduce/spell the sound of these birds and that is the closest I've come so far.  I've been told that they are crows but they don't really look like and certainly don't sound like American crows.  Can crows have accents?

Further research reveals that they are actually Rooks, a member of the crow family.  Many have left the area but when I arrived there were swarms  which worked like a perfect alarm clock each morning.  I was sorry to see their numbers diminish with the departing leaves.

Fall color, drifting leaves, wind singing in the eaves comfort and lull me to sleep each night.  I do miss my laundry at home but, in spite, of sore muscles, I'm beginning to enjoy the pace, the walking to do laundry, check out a book at the library, learning to read a bus schedule; but mostly finding that people are kind.  They want your stay at Aber to be enjoyable and go out of their way to help a stranger.  The bus driver is Barry.  The librarian is Joy.  I'm beginning to fit, to breathe, and to mentally unpack... which is a good thing.
 

“Not all those who wander are lost.” — J. R. R. Tolkien http://exploreforayear.com/inspiration/55-quotes-travel

Week 4 - The Finding

Kensington Fairyland in Astoria

 Before my send off to Fairyland, er um, Wales, I wasn't sure what I would find.  I knew I would face loss as I left my own dear little fairykin behind, but I was unprepared for the finding and the enormity of the finding and the change in myself at the finding.

I turned inwards as I travelled, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and facing my own inordinate fears of being lost yet again, I realized that in spite of my daydreams of world travel I am a closet-coward.  Let me phrase that a bit gentler.  As a child I was lost at Kreske's or perhaps Woolworth's Department store in Chicago.  I don't remember the name of the store just that it was the holidays, the store was packed and as I looked up, my mother was no longer standing in front of me.  I stood still, remembering that mom would find me if I just stood still.  True to her word, she did.  I was scolded for not paying attention but hugged for standing still so I could be found.  I've made it a point to not put myself in a position to get lost ever again.  Silly?  Perhaps but it is the random childhood memories that shape our lives.

Now in Aberystwyth, I'm learning to wander, to lose myself in history, in a novel, and in the experience.  Not bravely perhaps but I'm learning.  In exploring the base of the castle ruins, I noted several mosiacs facing the roadway.  At great peril to life and limb (UK drivers have the right of way and one takes their chances when stepping onto a roadway), I photographed several that caught my eye.

Death in the Castle

Eisteddfod

As I journeyed into the ruin courtyard, now a manicured lawn, I came across young male students with Nerf guns running in what looked to be a weaponized game of tag.  Another young man with a camera seemed to be recording and though I may be nervous when travelling, I have absolutely no compunction about talking to perfect strangers if I'm seeking information.  I queried him as to the "rules" of the game.  Half the team was Zombie and half (the ones with weapons) were the "normals."  It was the Zombie's responsibility to convert as many townies as possible.  The last one standing was deemed winner.  I watched for awhile, staying out of their playing field and then... the stones caught my eye.

Standing stones... a ring of standing stones carefully placed within the castle courtyard.  My reseacher's heart beat a little faster.  The game faded,  I walked into the stones as well as the game and noted they (the stones) were not completely symmetrical, some were carved with runes or stamped with what appeared to be tortoise symbols.  Wait!  My analytical brain called me up short when I saw the runic inscriptions.  This is a seaside town with corrosive salt air and these incisions were still crisp.  I photographed each one and looked forward to a long research session on my computer.  How lovely to find standing stones in my back yard!

However, the finding was not an easy finding and led me to another finding - another layer of Welsh history, another path I  least expected, a history that now plays peek-a-boo in the pages of my new novel.  These were not ancient standing or Druidic stones but were Bardic stones, newly placed during the1916 Eisteddfod, and representing the 13 original counties in Wales.  The Bards gather for competitions and each hopes to win the coveted prize:  a silver chair for the best storyteller, a silver tongue for the best singer, and a silver harp for the best minstrel.  I believe the runic carvings to be the names of the original counties.

As to our mystery skeleton - He appears to have been buried in the mid-1600's, within the castle which is in itself unusual.  He was approx. 28 years old, in above average health (good teeth), and buried hurriedly.  However, he was never reinterred in consecrated soil?  Was he murdered?  He is now resting at the Aberystwyth Free Museum, waiting for his fate to be decided.

But in my findings and research of those findings, I've learned to expect the unexpected, to use a bus schedule, to realize that in spite of age and my previous voluntary dependence on a vehicle, one can, indeed, regenerate unused and tired muscles.  Ultimately, it is the mind that seeks to find and it is in the finding that we discover... life, and maybe the odd fairy or two.

Wk 3 - The Library that Isn't

The view on the way to Church

Saturday dawned bright and clear.  I had an appointment with the bank - Barclay's.  Yes, to your raised eyebrows - the bank is open on Saturday (Sunday in the larger cities) and one needs an appointment to open an account to give them money... of course, you eventually want to withdraw it so you must bring your passport and various other items of of identification.

Not to fear, I used my time well and got a bit of a Welsh language lesson from Geriant, my personal banker.  Waunfawr, where I live, is pronounced Whine-vow-er.  "Welsh is easy," he proclaimed.  "It's all hard letters," he continued, referring to their vowels.  The light suddenly dawned as I've been trying to memorize the double "ll" as a "cla" sound, thus the Llandinam building is actually Chlan-dee-num.  "I think I've got it," as Eliza once said; but what I had was that the Welsh assign different sounds to their letters.  I explained to an astounded Geriant that a hard "a" in American is like the "a" in Kate.  Problem solved, account opened, we shook hands, and I stepped outside into a truly astounding Welsh afternoon.

I started down the Prom which borders the seaside.  People were out in droves, walking, strolling, jogging, pushing prams, chasing children, and generally enjoying life.  Me, well, I was rubbernecking.

Old College

 My iPhone 4, now worthless as it was designed without a Sim card, is a glorified iPod and decent camera.  I love the Old College.  Exploring later in the day and trying to trace the sound of a lovely choir, I learned that it was actually built as a hotel with three architects.  The first was fired for spending too much money (see pic above); moving to the right, the second spent less but died before completion.  The third finished but on a reduced budget.  I didn't see where they skimped nor really where one left off and the other began.  The architecture is spectacular.

I came upon the dragon benches that line the Promenade.  Catching my breath, I gazed out across the Irish Sea.  Six months ago, I sat in my office (the bed in a borrowed RV); and in researching Wales and Aberystwyth came across pictures of these benches.  Now here I was in Wales.  Reality has at moments like this a very unreal quality.  How could I be here?  Had I died and gone on to circumnavigate my dreams?  But people saw me, nodded, spoke, and answered my questions.  I was real flesh and blood. I was truly alive.  I held the feeling of joyful discovery close, a gift.  

Walking around the point, I climbed up a stone stairway, wondering at my imagined satin or damask floor length gown slipping across the tightly fitted slate, perhaps jewels on my fingers.  Had a princess or a milkmaid climbed these steps before me?  The castle ruin spread before my eyes as I followed the path back around the point; and as I climbed the rise, there on the lawn instead of wooly lambs were picnickers dotting the velvet green lawn.  A young woman sat upon the remains of a wall, silhouetted against the sky, the textbook in her lap grounded her in the here and now but she held a fairy quality as her hair billowed in the sea breeze.  

Walking  across what could only have been a moat at one time, I came across a gaol in which I understand four French soldiers were incarcerated.  Eventually I climbed to the back of the ruins and turning got a great shot of the town beneath me.  A blue Welsh sky is almost unbeatable.  Aberystwyth is hard to get to, one has to be determined, but it is a jewel that sparkles with depth and layers of history.

Prison Walls

View into the town from the Castle to the Old College

 Climbing down I investigated the Old College, wondering as I wandered as to how it was ever used as a hotel.  Of course, in fairness, it was Saturday and most of the interior doors were locked. They are offices now.  I wondered how the rooms looked new, tried to imagine what they were like in 1865.  It was built in just one year, which I can hardly fathom; went bankrupt; and was purchased by philanthropists intent on opening a school.  Aberystwyth/University of Wales now resides up the hill but Old College is fortunately still used, housing random offices and some classes.  

                       

Among its treasures is the library which overlooks the sea.  Located off the gallery level of the great hall, it's the door on the left at the far end.  One enters quietly.  It is a no-noise/study zone.  Not knowing it was a student at the front desk, I asked cautiously, "Where are the books?"

It is sadly no longer a library.  Now it is "The Library that Isn't,"  Shelves filled with the ghosts of books past.  Computers have replaced the collection; but bibliophiles do not fear.  I believe all the books have been moved to the Hugh Owen Library on campus.  Three-quarter sawn oak, fashioned by craftsmen long gone, the shelves beckoned to me.  There are those that call it haunted or comment that it makes their skin crawl.  I sat in utter bliss and wrote.  So overwhelmed with the antiquity of the day, the sea, the sky, the sheer beauty of creation, I Skyped my husband and in my excitement woke him at 2... AM...  Oops... Sorry, honey. Fortunately he barely remembered the call the next morning.

The Library that Isn't

I returned again today, carrying my computer within my backpack.  This time I saw more students hard at work on their studies or perhaps merely Facebooking friends in a quiet spot.  I sat with my back to the windows and produced over one thousand credible words before a text reminded me to meet Tao so  that we could share a taxi back up the hill.  It's a very steep hill.  I will return another day to feel my soul expand, to drink inspiration, and to pour my thoughts upon the page.  Until next time, what book would you most like to see upon upon the shelves of "the library that isn't?"