Shortly after we moved from Shetland to Cornwall, I told my then-husband that I wasn't sure Cornwall would ever feel like home the way Shetland did.
... and it never did.
Shetland may have been fucked up, but Cornwall and Devon are juuuust close enough (culturally) to my nook of the USA to make me resent the differences.
Showing posts with label Shetland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shetland. Show all posts
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Originally posted in 2007...
[But I STILL think about that damn plastic fork.]
Shortly before my mother died (not more than two weeks prior), my father, my mother, and I all sat in a row on the edge of my parents' TV, staring at a U.S. Open tennis match. A buff American was playing an equally buff Australian. My mother turned to us and asked, "Could you bring me a fork?"
A fork? Okay, sure. Whatever. My father gave me a look that said, "You heard your mother! Erm... or... well... make her happy?" I ran down to the kitchen and decided a plastic fork might be safer; she accepted the white, plastic fork with obvious, earnest gratitude. Relieved (and holding the fork upright in one hand), she began to nod off to sleep.
My father couldn't contain his curiosity and stopped her mid-drifting to ask her why she wanted the fork.
"In case the Brazilians win!" and she pointed at the TV.
A few nights ago, I was walking home from work, and I spotted a white, plastic fork by the side of the road. I make it a habit to pick up at least one piece of litter per walk, so that I can assuage my own ecological guilt by that one unit. Naturally, the fork found its way to my hand, and I in turn found myself thinking I must look really odd, wielding this shiny, white, plastic fork in the darkness of a Shetland night.
AND THEN I remembered.
And then I felt okay and brandished that fork all the way home. Because I really DO need it, in case the Brazilians win.
Shortly before my mother died (not more than two weeks prior), my father, my mother, and I all sat in a row on the edge of my parents' TV, staring at a U.S. Open tennis match. A buff American was playing an equally buff Australian. My mother turned to us and asked, "Could you bring me a fork?"
A fork? Okay, sure. Whatever. My father gave me a look that said, "You heard your mother! Erm... or... well... make her happy?" I ran down to the kitchen and decided a plastic fork might be safer; she accepted the white, plastic fork with obvious, earnest gratitude. Relieved (and holding the fork upright in one hand), she began to nod off to sleep.
My father couldn't contain his curiosity and stopped her mid-drifting to ask her why she wanted the fork.
"In case the Brazilians win!" and she pointed at the TV.
A few nights ago, I was walking home from work, and I spotted a white, plastic fork by the side of the road. I make it a habit to pick up at least one piece of litter per walk, so that I can assuage my own ecological guilt by that one unit. Naturally, the fork found its way to my hand, and I in turn found myself thinking I must look really odd, wielding this shiny, white, plastic fork in the darkness of a Shetland night.
AND THEN I remembered.
And then I felt okay and brandished that fork all the way home. Because I really DO need it, in case the Brazilians win.
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