©2010 Michelle French

There it was.

A big red exclamation point. An email from my sister on a Sunday morning. I had gotten up, checked email, made coffee and then went back to the comfort of my bed to watch BBC News. I had hoped it would lull me back to sleep.

When I finally gave up trying to doze, and finding myself bored to tears with the Sunday politics show, I got more coffee and sat down to find an email from my sister with the subject:

CALL ME ON MY CELL!!!  I’ve lost your number

There was no other message.

I knew what it meant immediately, though I could not believe it. When I finally reached her she said “I don’t believe it, but she’s gone.”

My Mother had died. Even though she had several rather critical illnesses‑all the result of diabetes and inactivity—we didn’t think she would ever actually die. Well, not this quietly. Not without drama.

Shock overtook me immediately. As a recent grad student, unemployed, with one mostly-maxed-out credit card, I couldn’t compute how I was going to get back to the States. Finally after an afternoon of frenzied attempts to transfer money, Joycie (my hero again after a million years) stepped in to save the day and bought my plane ticket. (Delta’s customer service was actually really good that day.)

12 hours later I was on a plane bound for Atlanta. With no sleep. I had left my house at 4 a.m., took 2 night busses to Kings Cross/St. Pancras and the Thameslink to Gatwick.

My sister’s two boys and their dad picked me up in blazing heat in Atlanta for the start of 2 frenzied weeks of visiting and feeble attempts to assist my sister in the chores.

At the funeral home we received the good wishes from friends and relatives. I took photos of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends—suddenly aware that I may never see some of them again.

The flowers were astoundingly beautiful. One in particular, a basket of white roses with a dynamic swash of netting was the result of Mother’s dear neighbor Betty’s direction: “Myra and I are both Drama Queens, so it has to be dramatic!” The Red Hat ladies had sent another arrangement with one of Mother’s Red Hats featured.

The service was sweet. My cousin Rick, who had been one of my Mom’s piano students gave a touching eulogy and performed Chopin accompanying a slide show my sister’s friend Danita had prepared with photos of Mother throughout the years. My sister’s eldest son was so grown-up and composed as a pall bearer. The Red Hat Society Ladies, acting as honorary pall bearers, lined the walkway on either side of us as we left the church.

After the service family and friends went on to their lives and my sister began sifting through the clutter.

Mother was a “bad diabetic” as they say in the South. People use the phrase to express that one has a bad case of the disease. In reality, Mother was just not good at taking care of her diabetes. It had caused heart problems, kidney dysfunction, and a bit of dementia.

As my sister dug through the nest of debris surrounding Mother’s old-lady chair, she said “Do you think she killed herself?”

There, hidden out of view, was a large box of mini-honey-buns and a large tub of salted-peanuts.

And she could never understand why she couldn’t control her blood-sugar or her hypertension.

I live in a cottage in a garden in North London that, late summer is covered with passion flowers and then passion fruit.

When I was chatting about it with my landlady, the amazing Victoria, I said “Most people move to England to live in rose covered cottages.”

“What does that say about you, Michelle?” she asked.

“What does that say about both of us?” was my answer.

The only down side is its distance from Central London, though it is quite easy to get there. Well, and I could use a bit more space. For anyone who knew me when I lived in Avondale Estates in a sinfully spacious home, you know that there is never any such thing as enough space—especially for a self-employed designer and artist.

In the garden, I have my tomatoes in pots along with flowers and herbs. These are photos from last year.

The back door of the cottage from the garden. The vine to the left of the window is the passion vine.

Today, I blocked the feed from a few of my Facebook “friends.”

When I first got my Facebook account, I would send a message to anyone from my hometown that wished to “friend” me that I did not wish to be insulting, but my friends are artists, designers, professors, politicians and theologians—all of whom are fairly liberal.

Most accepted without much comment, though, one, with whom I was never friends in high school, did rather snarkily rescind her invitation. I was relieved. She hasn’t changed a bit. I finally relaxed my policy to accept anyone that was either from my high school class or family.

I have gone out of my way not to post anything rude about other people’s political or religious beliefs.  I think it is simple good manners.

Once I did post what I thought was a rather utopian status that was copied from another friend’s status:
No one should die because they cannot afford health care, and no one should go broke because they get sick. If you agree, join us in posting this as your status for the rest of the day.

I was completely astounded by the vitriol that was spewed at me from one of my childhood classmates. This person was not someone I had been friends with growing up. This person was a mean and bitter child. But I always estimated a higher level of intellect than this diatribe conveyed. Second, it was not even posted to my status, so I almost didn’t even see it at all. Said person was using his own status to attack me! Repeatedly.

I was horrified.

His “arguments” had nothing to do with what I was saying. They incoherent rants repeated from some conservative radio talk show.

Today, I have been appalled, once again, by the bile spewed by people professing to be “Christian.” While I do not represent myself as a “good” Christian, I am one hell of a Presbyterian (PCUSA) and have had the benefit of a very deep Biblical education by a string of respected theologians and seminarians. (If I had not been so exhausted with The Church itself, I probably would have ended up in seminary.)

The whole point being—the Bible charges us to love and care for one another and I did not see any caring for others in these mean and racist posts.

I have seen family members lose homes because of catastrophic health care costs.

I have had to take abuse from a doctor who wanted to insert a feeding tube into my grandmother after a catastrophic stroke had taken everything except her heartbeat. My grandmother’s worst fear would have been realized, and the healthcare industry could have soaked Medicare for a year of keeping my grandmother in agony. We learned then that a Living Will is only as good as the intestinal fortitude of the person who is charged with carrying it out. After a couple of days of accusing my mother of “killing” her mother , the doctor saw that we were united, and he meekly told us that we were doing the right thing to let her go. (The jackass!!!!)

For vast periods of time in my adult life, I have had no healthcare insurance. When things were good, I would buy a policy from a large “respected” carrier (Blue) only to have my rates go up every 6 months—even though I was healthy, young and not using it.

The first economic bump in the road, and boom! It was gone. (I am working on a film on explaining economics.) With my business, I was more likely to have a year of healthcare premiums in hand than I was the several hundred (or a grand) a month it would have taken to secure a really good policy.

Before I moved to the UK, I went to the gyno. It is a very trusted practice, however, the doctor I wanted to see had a 6 month waiting list for appointments so I was seeing one I did not like.

I sat there and endured this woman shrieking at me and making judgments about me because I had not had consistent healthcare coverage. She ranted that I would have no choice about a doctor in the UK .

All I could think was: I had no choice there. The insurance company decided which practice I could see. And I was stuck with this shrew because all of the other doctors were booked.

That same afternoon I got a notice that my healthcare policy had been cancelled (thanks to a direct debit snafu) and I had to pay through the nose for the privilege of suffering the indignities heaped on me by this experience.

I have been pleasantly surprised and pleased by the care I have gotten from the NHS in the UK. (The facilities are not what you expect in the US, but then again, you get good care and are not paying for wallpaper and cushy sofas to distract you from getting gouged.)

I had the choice of several practices in the area. I chose the one with the most women doctors. (Always a safer bet.) While Dr. Barbie, my primary GP irks me with her insistence that everyone is born to run—I can get reassigned if I wanted to bother.

Prescriptions cost £7.30 each (Nasonex! Woo-hoo!) And I ended up seeing an ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist because of my chronic sinus infections who immediately did an allergy panel on me. Guess what! I have some pretty bad allergies. Since one is an allergy to dogs, I have begged for shots, but I have Nasonex and had a years’ worth of loratidine shipped over from the States. (Thanks Jane.)

Not too long ago, my sister asked why I had not been tested for a condition that runs in our family.

The simple answer was—I couldn’t afford to be diagnosed with anything that could be a preexisting illness.

Now, maybe I will be able to have healthcare as I age.

And I may have a few less Facebook “friends.”

When one of your teachers looks at you and says “I would not want to be doing this course at our age,” you do wonder about yourself. 

The course was brutal for someone who hadn’t been in college since before most of my classmates were born. But I made it. I was dissuaded from tackling the project that actually interested me and, after a facetious brainstorming session with a few of my classmates, I proposed the subject matter for my Major Project.

I did my project on Facebook. My existing Facebook addiction was fed as I first tried “making Facebook into a real book.” I did projects that included a visual comparison of photos of my Facebook friends and then a completely visual layering of the photos. I completed a volume of research on social networking including marketing and communications. My Major Project eventually became a visual mapping of my Facebook social network, produced in Flash. (Even though we were warned not to tackle any new software, I felt the need to try it—plus not one of the tutors knows Flash and almost all are younger than me.

Since completing the course, I have felt that I survived an ordeal, rather than achieved an advanced degree. 

On our short celebratory trip to Paris the day after our marks were posted, I was stretched out in a hotel room with 2 classmates, and said “Now that I know what I want to do for my project, I’m ready to start over.” 

Now I sit in my tiny cottage applying for jobs, doing a bit of freelance work, and pondering what I want to do next. 

What does a woman who has been a graphic designer for eons; who has read continuously; understands marketing, PR, advertising and how it all works together; has read and kept up with news in a wide range of fields; yet, is “overqualified” for jobs in her field do? Even with a Masters in Facebook?

Not only is Sparkie a world traveller now, she navigates the London Underground and National Rail like any other jaded Londoner.

Walking onto the train, it is obvious which people like dogs and which do not—an instant divide.

I grew up in a small town in Alabama in big house with white columns with three sisters. It had the usual, spacious, formal rooms, and a big den with a wall of books, the best TV available with all the cable channels available then, and a big fireplace that added to the warmth of the central heat in the winter.

The arguments were straight out of a sit-com. Nattering over the laundry baskets not being moved upstairs to the bedrooms in a timely manner; griping that daughter #3 ate a whole box of Thin Mints because everyone knew that the little neighbor urchin only ate 4 cookies; and constant admonitions to teenage girls to “slow down” when they drove.

Anyone who knows me, knows that this was not my real family. They were the Neighbors. And the gracefully tolerated my intrusion from the time I was about 10 years old. Their youngest daughter, “Joycie”, was two grades ahead of me and she was who I wanted to be when I grew up. She was an athlete, a musician and someone that everyone liked. It turns out, she never knew the realities of my real homelife.

Charlie, her dad, did. He was also our pharmacist. He knew how bad things were at my house—the medications that my mom took and on occasion abused. He, more than anyone else in Podunk, Alabama, knew my mom was crazy.

I remember sitting on the floor next to the sofa, crying, and him patting my head. He was the dad that my own father could not be. He was gregarious, funny, brilliant and caring and kept everyone’s secrets.

He joked with me when I “married out of my faith,” (I graduated from Auburn and PMS went to Alabama—hey, in Alabama that is more serious than a Catholic marrying a Jew) and was understanding when the union did not work out. For far more serious reasons. When I said that I would never get married again he said “Well, I guess you’ll be like Joyce.” 

Sorry, Joycie, but I snorted “No, not hardly.” Forgetting that we were forbidden from talking about THAT. He went right along…

This past Thanksgiving I was instant messaging Joycie, a reconnection after 20 years thanks to Facebook, while she was visiting him at the nursing home. Charlie wanted to know when I was coming over to watch “the game.” He thought it was still the ’70s. 

Charlie and Mary Frank were the parents I didn’t have in my own house. They showed me what parents should and could be. He didn’t talk when I needed that. And I could go in the kitchen and chatter to Mary Frank while she was baking. A never ending supply of pecan sandies.

Here in London, my Atlanta phone died last week. So I didn’t get the message from Joycie that he had died. She was as prepared as one can be because she had watched his decline. 

For some reason, I was not. I have lost my father in a car wreck, very young; then my sweet stepfather—suddenly from a heart attack and comparatively young; and now Charlie. I wasn’t ready.

But I am so glad that I got to be his youngest girl every now and again. 

Yes Joycie, thinking of your parents, I do have hope that I will someday find someone to share my life. Because I got to play in a house with parents who loved each other and all of their children, including the sad little neighbor child whose real parents forgot where she was.

(And Duke’s Mayo, Maker’s Mark and Smucker’s Organic Peanut Butter)

As someone involved in visual communications who has done her fair share of corporate identity projects, the word “branding” most often makes me cringe. People misuse it and most often you hear it from clients who have no idea what they are talking about. I have actually asked if they want me to mark their cattle. 

Then I came to another country. The day I stood before a wall of soap powders, looking for clues as to what these products actually do, I definitely appreciated the branding and advertising of products. 

The first time I looked for laundry detergent, I went home without any. The same with a few other items. I finally recognized one brand name, though not the package, and purchased it. (Next time I will get the liquid.) The Fairy dishwashing liquid, well, just isn’t Dawn. (GEEZ, I have learned the definition of limescale! Have you ever had spots on handwashed dishes before?)

Luckily, I finally found a bottle of Tobasco, though, oddly enough, it was at the Turkish Market. And one of the groovy, organic 50% fiber breakfast cereal brands that I eat was at the local Sainsbury’s. They have Hellman’s Mayo, but, well, it ain’t Duke’s.

There is an abundant selection of good, inexpensive wines, but, my taste in beer runs way past my budget, not to mention the amount of weight I am willing to lug home. I also have learned to shop only with a basket, because if it doesn’t fit in that basket, I will not be able to tote it home. (Have not yet replaced my cart, or trolley as it is here.)

Sparkie is enjoying the random selection of dog foods. She has eaten ONE since she was a puppy, but has yet to turn down whatever is poured into the bowl. The best food is in Lolly or Larken’s bowls anyway. And if she eats theirs, they scratch on my door, walk in, and eat Sparkie’s.

The speciality shops are the best place to buy specific things. There is a patisserie, farmers markets and I really must find the cheese shop where Simon finds the most luscious cheeses.

But, there are no grits. I felt really guilty for not packing a few boxes, because Nicholas, Sophie and Simon’s son, born in Atlanta, expresses his American Southernness by having grits at every opportunity. The only ones available are in a shop specializing in American goods. But they only carry INSTANT grits. And to any real Southerner, that is an insult. They also carry Jiff peanut butter, but I do not eat partially hydrogenated stuff or high-fructose corn syrup, so Jiff is out of the question. 

So here are a few lists.

Thinks that are fantastic:
• chocolate
• school
• classmates & tutors
• train and Tube (except late at night)

Things I did not bring (though they are most likely in one of the couple of boxes I did not ship):
• a few housewares (measuring cups and spoons, a few of my favorite mugs)
• certain art supplies 
• instruction books for my cameras
• certain connectors for my electronics
• the mini speakers for my computer and i-Pod
• Duke’s Mayo
• Dawn dishwashing liquid
• Books, books, and other books
• anything to wear to paint 

Things that I got here with, that I do not need:
• too many heavy winter clothes—it is colder than Atlanta, but not that much
• my big Starbucks Atlanta mug instead of my big Auburn one
• my wireless keyboard (so far I am working on the computer in my lap since shipping the big screen was too expensive) 

OK, I will put to use darn near everything I brought.

I did find a source for Maker’s Mark (for medicinal purposes only—“cough, cough”) but the Ketel One and Chambourd are just more than my little student budget wants to handle. So if you want to have a French Martini (Roger) you’ll have to pick them up in the Duty Free.

Random things that I am thrilled I managed to get here with:
• my hot-pink martini shaker and two matching martini glasses from “Sex and the City” with Simone
• my purple paring knife, the good can opener and a small grater
• Mucinex
• Motrin (though I may need some soon)
• thin socks that I can wear with my clogs
• clogs
• cameras
• Sparkie, of course

Things I have had to buy, and cost less than to ship my others:
• an easel (yes I’m painting for my design class and it was only £30)
• paint (great sale at one of the art supply stores!)
• papers
• a printer/scanner

This afternoon I am off to get my check-in/check-up at the GP so that I will have a Doctor. There was one practice that was a smidge closer, but I chose the one that had women in it. 

My Brit friends want a report on my impressions of the British National Health Care System.

We remain, very happy to be here. Even without the grits and peanut butter. The coco-hazelnut creme is divine.

When I first began my quest for grad school, a friend told me “Going back to school as an adult is like being rich.”

I’m not sure I totally understood what she meant. But last week I got a taste. The State-owned museums here in London have no admissions fees. So I could wander through one gallery, study one piece, have tea and even linger over the newspaper in the café. There was no rush to see every little thing in one visit. I can go back. I can take time to savor the great works with out jogging through with a check list.

What an incredible luxury.

Larken herds Sparkie as she explores the garden path, sniffing for foxes.

Written on New Year’s Day

Sparkie and I have arrived in London. Our last few days in Atlanta were a rush of activity. When I found it was going to be cost prohibitive to ship many of my things, I scrambled to re-pack.

Kristin Ruby threw a fantastic going away party for me. I have not yet looked at the photos, but did read my guest book. (Philip, thanks for the documentation of my conversation.)

I know, I know, I probably promised to call you from the airport, thinking that I would be sitting there for a few hours. But Sparkie’s check-in took an inordinate amount of time and it turns out that the flight was a little earlier than I had remembered.

Richard, my brother, delivered us to our respective drop-off points, and commented at Sparkie’s drop-off, he had never seen so many people working in one place to do so little.

I was very impressed with British Air. Even in steerage, you got a little kit with a toothbrush, a tiny tube-ette of toothpaste, an eye mask, and something else I’ve forgotten and a seat large enough to contain my generous backside.

A very small boy was having a difficult night on the flight and shared that with us all. It didn’t occur to me that I could ask for ear plugs. I managed to get a little sleep, but not much.

Oh, the re-packing resulted in me checking 7 bags. Plus I had my laptop in a backpack and a carry-on bag with an assortment of irrational choices of weird stuff crammed inside.

At Gatwick, it took two trolleys that I attached to each other with a bungee cord to carry my luggage. Sophie was waiting with this giant van, although at that point, it had taken so long that she was about to give up on me.

Then we went to pick up Sparkie. The surroundings there were a little more pleasant than the office that shipped Sparkie out, though the staff had forgotten to turn on the heat. We huddled under the heater once it was turned on with a girl from Greenville, SC, who was waiting for her Daschund.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Sparkie’s paper work had been flawlessly prepared (thank you Buckhead Animal Clinic) but BA had to send paperwork to DEFRA who had to send it by computer to Manchester where it had to be sent back to London.

On the way to Palmers Green, I fell asleep sitting straight up in the van. (Now why couldn’t I have slept on the plane?) After lunch and a short nap at Sophie and Simon’s, we managed to connect with my new landlord, and deposited Sparkie, an embarrassing amount of stuff and me to my new home.

My little home is another garden shed. A studio cottage is the more appropriate term.

But this time it is attractive, bright, modernized, and comes with Victoria, my landlord who has been more of a really great hostess. (What a difference from my last experience.) When I got here there were new wardrobes for my clothes—the exact same ones that I thought I would be running out to IKEA to buy. Victoria had coffee, tea, a few other groceries and, get this, the same brand of dog food that Sparkie has always eaten.

Speaking of great hostess (and host), Sophie and Simon invited me to their New Year’s Eve celebration dinner. They had a few of their close friends, Simon’s mom and me.

It was wonderful. As always, the food was spectacular, the company entertaining (I remember crying with laughter), and the wine and champagne flowed freely.

At some point, I was asked how long I had been awake. I had no idea. The night before my departure I had given my nephew a note requesting that he wake me up at 6:30am. He offered to do it earlier…but I had a clue that I might have a petite hangover.

The one glitch here has been with wi-fi connection. I have not had phone service or internet. My family had wondered if I was completely gone incommunicado. 

And I celebrated the New Year by sleeping, recovering from both jetlag and the parties that sandwiched my trip, and unpacking (I had no idea that I still owned this much stuff) and watching TV. Wondering why I brought certain things and why I left others at home that right now I believe I really need.

I know that I am where I am supposed to be. I am happy.

No matter what you bet, I won’t sound like Madonna next month. Well not exactly.

But Sparkie’s accent seems to match that of the border collies exactly. You would never know that she isn’t British.