Simple pleasures, or, the 'Barford Century'

“What century are you living in?” – a blog observer jested recently.

To be sure, there are times when I am uncertain myself, and find myself pondering, rather delightfully and blissfully, this self-same question. Perhaps, the best and most accurate answer is: “A kinder and gentler one than the present.”

In so many ways, my life in Barford does seem to be caught within a time warp. My experiences here are light years from the life I led not so long ago in New York City. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

“Visit the sunny village of Barford where you can experience a little taste of the country.”

So read the advertisement for the Barford Village Show. And the advert did not lie! The Village Show is a massive undertaking that occurs here on the August Bank Holiday weekend, but only happens every four years - such is the magnitude of its scale and scope.

This year was our first experience of the Village Show. And, the DEB and I were both staggered and amazed by the level of commitment, drive, energy, enthusiasm and creativity displayed and required by everyone involved.

The village truly came together and pulled off quite a remarkable show. “This is just one of those things that we do very, very well.” So said my fellow WI-er, June. And, by golly she was right!

Visitors to our tiny corner of Warwickshire were treated to an array of funny scarecrows; home-made cakes and pies; skits and sketches; performances on the village green; strolling musicians; characters in costume; allotment tours; competitions for Best Vegetables, Flowers & Painted Stones; “Guess the weight of the Piglet” contest; a series of indoor and outdoor entertainments; pony rides; Hog Roasts; BBQs; art exhibits; antique stalls; local produce sales; and two historical exhibitions of wedding dresses and drama group costumes. There were also special church services, and prize-winning, guest bell-ringers from across the County ringing the church bells over the course of two full days.

The DEB and I contributed – exhausted though we were, having just returned the day before, from our two-week holiday – to the Village Show efforts of the Drama Group, Church and WI.

On Sunday, I served on the altar at the 8:00 am service – in my new alb, which FINALLY arrived!! This meant being up, awake, alert and at the church by half 7. (Oy vey.) Thank goodness, it’s just across the road.

In the afternoon, we both performed at a matinee of “Songs and Verses” the proceeds of which (over £200, I think) went to the Warwickshire and Northamptonshire Air Ambulance. The DEB sang and played two numbers on his guitar (he has such a beautiful voice *SIGH*).

I panicked for 24 hours, and fretted about what to do and in the end, realised it’s always best to stick with what you know. So – I donned one of the Drama Group’s Elizabethan costumes (with a gorgeous hat, of course!) and performed a selection of Shakespeare sonnets. After that, a stroll about the Village as a “costumed character.”

The highlight of the Village Show for me was the “Wedding Dress” exhibition sponsored by Barford WI. I mean, who doesn’t love wedding dresses? But, more importantly, our display of wedding dresses also provided a very unique illustration of social and cultural history in the live of the Village.

It was also just really fascinating to see how each dress expressed the style, persona and personality of the owner. Sue Tompkins’ early 1990s ensemble – complete with a cotton dress in dark green floral pattern ; and a pair of large, black, leather Dr. Martens boots – was the real show stopper of the exhibition!

This was one of those truly lovely WI moments, as we all gathered on Saturday, armed with our boxes, treasures, pictures and memories. Talk of how times and styles have changed – or not. And how society has changed.

For example, I recall one woman musing as she regarded another’s elaborate gown: “How lovely. Yes, I couldn’t wear a dress like that, ours was a second marriage in the 1970s.” Times have changed for the better, in some ways at least. And of course, it was just nice to be able to give the dress a second outing!

The organiser of the “Scarecrows” had asked us if we might participate in that event, but we decided that we rather wait, and see what it was all about first. I’m glad we did.

The Scarecrow displays were very serious business! The art and skill that went into them was incredible. There was one scarecrow modeled on our wonderful, wonderful postman, Steve.

The “Postie Steve” scarecrow was amazing! It had been masterfully painted, and looked just like him. When you walked passed the scarecrow, the motion was detected, and activated a sound system that began to play that old hit: “Wait a minute, Mr. Postman.”

Very clever.

My one disappointment from the Village Show experience was that I did not have my act together enough to submit an arrangement to the Floral Competitions. For some reason, when I had previously read through the Village Show materials I had failed to spot the “Best in Show” for Flowers.

I knew lots of people who were submitting veggies to the competition, but didn’t notice anything about flowers! Which is a shame, really, as my white, antique rose has done so well this year. I have no doubt I would have garnered a place!

Oh, well, there’s always 2014…

I think the greatest thing about the Village Show was, and is, well, the village itself and the people in it. People really came together, went all out and gave ceaselessly of their time, talents and resources to make the Village Show a success. That comes down to pride, I think, and a real love of this timeless place we call home.

(And here's mine!)

Hostess with the most-est

I missed a great opportunity last night. 

I had the chance to be Grace Kelly, and I blew it.

I was offered a regal, romantic moment to display elegance, grace, maturity and charm; and what did I do? I responded like a Fraggle.

Allow me to explain.

Last night at W.I., we were treated to a music performance by “Lazymanz Flute” – an acoustic, folk duo consisting of my darling D.E.B. and his whistle playing chum, Ewan. The boys gave a stellar performance!

I was very proud, of course. I enjoy their music immensely, and without a doubt, I am very familiar with their repertoire. Still, nothing could have prepared me for their closing number.

I had advised/requested the boys end the evening with a rousing ditty, and offer the ladies a little sing-along, but to my surprise, the D.E.B. instead introduces a beautiful love song, “Who Knows Where the Time Goes,” and dedicates it to me.

“I love playing this song to my wife,” he said. And there, before the assembled gathering, he thundered unashamedly and unreservedly, and declared his pride and joy at being “lucky enough” to be my husband; and he waxed lyrical on the wonder of finding true love.

I was stunned, but returned his loving smile. 

But then, all at once, I found myself surrounded by a sea of dewy-eyed women – all looking at me.

I became uncomfortable.

Suspecting that there may be some in our group, who, cut from the same cloth as the character “Miss Deborah” from Cranford, might find such a public, out-pouring of emotion abhorrent, “not the done thing”. Very un-British.

And, so, dear Reader, I failed.

In a moment wherein I could have been extraordinary, I chose to be ordinary. I pulled a face, and uttered a noise not unlike the sound of someone quietly choking a fraggle.

(I feel the urge to cry, and resist big, salty tears, as I think now on how I had responded.)

“Don’t you worry, Alycia,” my friend, Frances, called out to me, sensing my blushing awkwardness. “We all love the romance of this, we’re with you!”

Thankfully, I regained my composure and sense of ‘the moment’, and blew the D.E.B. a kiss at the end of the song.

I have wrestled with myself over and over this morning, trying to tweeze and uncover the source of my Fraggle-esque response.

For one thing, I find that I am always so staggered by the D.E.B., and his incredible love for me; in some ways, I feel so completely unprepared for his frank and bold passionate-ness (Is that a word? It should be.)

In my defense, I have never known anyone like him before; nor have I ever been loved as I am by him before.

Public displays of emotion, like public displays of affection, were always discouraged quite soundly by my staunchly Southern Baptist-quasi-Catholic family. Take for example, those infamous and dreaded “Goodbye” moments at the airport. On those occasions, lengthy or dramatic scenes of dewy affection were avoided at all costs.

A solid pat on the back, a firm handshake, or a swift, terse half-embrace were always considered more than sufficient. “Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve,” my father would admonish, routinely employing Shakespeare to add lofty credibility to his own discomfiture with public displays of affection.

Whenever he quoted that line, I would think to myself – but of course never say to him – that it was also Shakespeare who depicted, ever so romantically, the parting of loved ones as “such sweet sorrow.” In these terms, it seems the choice is one of restraint or indulgence.

I, for one, am determined now more than ever before, to allow myself to be more ‘indulgent’ in future.

Last night, I also fulfilled my first W.I. duty as “Flower Hostess”. The Flower Hostess is responsible for creating and providing a floral arrangement to be displayed on the top table during the meeting. 

What joy!

I treated myself to an afternoon at the Charlecote Park Nursery, and bought two dozen orange parrot tulips. Lovely! 

I spent the early evening cutting and arranging them in a sweet, emerald green vase that the D.E.B. inherited from his mum and dad – thought that was a nice touch sense he was going to be performing at the meeting that night.

Everyone said the flowers looked lovely. So, at least I got one thing right! 

The Empress's New Clothes

Here I am, back at long last. The past few weeks have been the most glorious, heartfelt, and overwhelming of my life. I have thought long and hard about the best way to share what has transpired, and what it has meant to me. I search for words, but can find only tears. Happy ones.

To say that our wedding day was joyous is true, but does not go far enough to capture the utter joy it was. To say that the day was magic/magical, is true, but still not enough to convey the sheer magical fantastic-ness of it.

To say that it was everything I had ever wished for, dreamt of, prayed for, and imagined would all be true, but still would not go far enough to express what I feel right now.

To be sure—confirmed perfectionist that I am—there are moments I wish I could rewind and re-do somewhat differently, (who doesn’t feel that way?) but overall our wedding day was as “perfect” as it needed to be.

And I am learning, slowly, that there is something in the imperfectness and unexpectedness of life/things/people/events that is utterly human and should be valued and regarded as precious in its own, and often mysterious, way.

(I can guarantee that the concept of “perfectness” will be a recurring theme from this point on, as I have already begun to ponder the idea of what it might mean to be a “perfect wife.”)

But, for now, back to “the day”…

More than anything I was aware in a remarkable and profound way of being utterly surrounded that day by love. There was one moment, amongst so, so many, that really stands out for me.

At the end of the service, the choir sang a choral blessing (John Rutter’s very lovely ‘The Lord Bless You and Keep You”), and I swear, it felt to me as if, in that moment, the D.E.B. and I were being washed over by a sea of love and blessing, surrounded and embraced by not only all of our beloved family and friends who were present, but also by the love and good spirits those have gone on ahead of us in eternity. Bliss.

Once my head is out of the clouds I will share all the wacky and wonderful practical details such as how, yes, I did go for an early morning swim at the gym the morning of the wedding(!); and which shoes I finally settled on in the end (!!!).

For now, I am savouring my favourite moments, and replaying the scenes that felt and were indeed like a fairy tale.

Our wonderful, talented, gifted, incredible wedding photographer, Elizabeth Harper, did an amazing job of capturing our special day. She sent me some sample shots to whet my appetite, along with a note saying that our wedding seemed to her to be like a scene from a Jane Austen novel/movie, and I have to say that is exactly how it felt for me too, as it all happened…

….The absolutely perfect, crystal clear and warm (!?!) weather. (Truly, there is no day like a perfect English, summer day.)

All the smiling faces that greeted me as I entered the church…

….My handsome, gorgeous D.E.B. smiling at me as I walked down the aisle.

The choir singing “our song” – Howard Goodall’s “Vicar of Dibley” theme tune (Psalm 23), that moment could have lasted forever and it wouldn’t have been long enough! Everyone was crying. Me, the D.E.B., the vicar, the choir, the world! The lead soprano got so choked up, her voice cracked a little at one point, which just made us all cry even more!...

…Saying our vows…my turn to have my voice crack…

Standing on the altar and singing “Jerusalem”, with the Barford W.I. standing and singing in the back rows...

Speaking of W.I.!!! As the D.E.B. and I exited the church the Barford W.I. formed a guard of honor for us to walk beneath. They saluted us with long wooden spoons adorned with garlands of flowers.   

...The Church bells ringing out joyously...

Magic.

The whole day was sheer magic. Such an incredible expression of love, family and community. (And that something you can’t plan, organize or manage on theknot.com!)

Our reception at the Granville was absolutely splendid! The D.E.B.’s brother, a.k.a. The Guru, was the best Best Man, ever. His speech was all in rhyme like a Shakespeare sonnet, and he even created a Quiz.

Yes, there was a written trivia quiz during the reception! How awesome is that?! No, I didn’t win, but that’s okay. J

And the evening dance party with fabulous, (I finally fulfilled my DJ-ing fantasies!) and we danced till the wee hours.

Everyone made sure that the D.E.B. and I felt feasted, feted, hallowed, honoured and celebrated. And I do feel that something tremendous has transpired, an incredible shift in my soul and psyche. I do feel that I have changed.

The title of this posting obviously refers to that old children’s story about the Emperor who doesn’t realize he was nude. He actively ignored reality, what was staring him straight in the face, and he lacks clarity and self-awareness.

By contrast, my fairy tale is all about embracing new life, starting again, and seeing things afresh. Shedding the “old clothes” of the past, and putting on the snazzy, new garments of the future!

It has been a remarkable journey, and the D.E.B. and I have come a long way both individually and collectively. The past was not very kind to either of us, and for all our blood, sweat and tears, neither of our paths were particularly smooth.

I think of the character, Paulina’s words at the end of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, after all the trials and hardships the lovers have all endured, finally to win their crowns of love and wedded bliss at the end of the play, she says: “You are precious winners all!”

Funnily enough, the D.E.B and I are very like the characters in The Winter’s Tale, who take 16 long years to get their relationships/lives together, in that it has taken me and the D.E.B. 13 years from the time we first met, to get from there to here.

What a journey it has been. We both had to kiss a few frogs before we found our Prince/Princess Charming, but the good news is that dreams do come true. We finally reached the happy ending. 

Birds of a Feather

Dearest A.,

I am glad you're back from the 'savage lands' of the USA! It's been a long sojourn and I'm sure filled with important and excellent things. Good for your Darling English Boy for winning you back for us! It may take time to adjust, but you belong with us!

-- excerpt from a letter from a wonderful English mentor of mine. Dated 12 Feb 2009

This letter arrived just as I have been contemplating my place in this, my new world. I hope that she is right, that I do indeed "belong" here. It feels right, it feels true and best. The longer I remain here, the more at home and at peace I become.

I think one of the absolute smartest decisions I ever made was joining the Barford W.I. It meant putting myself out there, walking into a crowded room full of strangers and saying, "Here I am." But, my life seems to have been full of such moments, so the prospect was not as harrowing for me, as it might be for some. That is not to say that I wasn't shaking in my boots, because I was!

In the W.I. I have found only welcome, friendship and fellowship (or should that be sistership?). Not to mention the fact that my jam-making skills have improved. Improved? They were non-existent before!

More than anything else, the W.I. has provided me with a window into British culture, in all its fascinating--and often side-splitting--glory.

Last month, at our first W.I. meeting of the year, our guest speaker was Nikki Cockayne, a lady Falconer from here in South Warwickshire. (Where was that on "Career Day"? She has a super job. She trains birds for television costume dramas, theatre and films.)

Here is an extract from the Barford W.I. President's meeting report:

At the January meeting members were delighted to be introduced to Pedro, Winston, Shylock and Mopsa by Nikki Cockayne. These were birds of prey – a kestrel, a falcon, a barn owl and a tawny owl.

They were all stunning and Nikki gave a fascinating talk and demonstration with her birds. Several members were brave enough to hold the birds on a well-gloved hand and get up close and personal. There was not too much flying around (by the birds) so those of a nervous disposition were fine. Thanks must go to Louise Cleife who efficiently did the equivalent job of the man behind the horse with the shovel!

The President's report only touches upon the sheer hilarity of this meeting. One the birds took flight and actually landed on a member's head! We all laughed until we cried. And I fulfilled a dream of holding a kestrel on my arm.

From birds to birdbrains...

Later in the month, the Barford W.I. were set to compete in the Warwickshire Round of the annual "Federation of Women's Institutes Quiz Challenge." This was to become my first true introduction to the British phenomenon that is "The Quiz Night".

The Barford W.I. is renowned in these parts for making a very strong showing in the annual quiz. Last year, the Barford Team made it as far as the finals! As a newbie, I could but dream of what one day might be.

The Barford W.I. 2008 Warwickshire Quiz Teams: "Barford 1" and "Barford 2," had been selected long before I joined. But, as the fates would have it, the Team 1 stalwart, Hilary, was laid low by the flu, and a Reserve Member was needed.

For me, proud nerd, devout history buff, and ferocious Trivial Pursuit player that I am, this was my moment, my dream came true, my hope beyond hope! I thought to myself, all I have to do is shine like a star, help the team WIN and my place in the Barford line-up, and Quiz History, would be set!

Oh, the naive ambitions of the proud and foolhardy. During the long-ish car journey to the Quiz, as we navigated the dark, foggy, Warwickshire back roads, Ann, the driver, mused aloud with a smile, "Gosh, I do hope I have prepared enough." Prepared? Prepared what? I panicked to myself quietly. "Well, I did remember to memorise the current and past Presidents of W.I." Diane remarked softly in her warm Scottish accent. "Oh, we'll be all right then." Sue, sitting next me, said reassuringly. Heaven help me, what have I got myself into, was all I could think.

Clearly, this was to be no ordinary "take your chances" Quiz game. This fact was confirmed as soon as I had arrived along with the rest of "Barford 1" to the village hall in Ashorne. All the women present were sociable and friendly, but one thing was clear: these ladies were serious, and they were taking no prisoners. Every single woman there was "in it, to win it."

Some W.I.'s had even attempted to increase their odds by putting forth more than two teams! (And in some cases, more than 3 teams!!) Personally, I think this is a grossly unfair advantage. But that could just be a case of sour grapes. Yes, we lost. And, we lost big. "Barford 1" came in 8th out of 21. ("Barford 2" came in 10th.)

But the embarrassment wasn't just limited to the end result. Oh no, I also successfully managed to embarrass myself and my team, completely. Being unused to "proper Quiz etiquette," I committed a heinous, public faux pas.

At the end of round one, the Adjudicator stood up to announce the first round scores. A hush fell upon the room. She began solemnly: "Barford 1...8 points." At which point, possessed by a spirit of impending victory (or insanity), I yelped. Aloud. No, truth be told, it was more of "rebel yell," although, more of a "Whoo-hoo!" than a "Yee-haw!" Nevertheless, it was utterly inappropriate.

All around me, a sea of bemused British female faces. That is, apart from my team mates, god bless them, sweet Barfordian souls that they are. Blushing, red faced and a little taken aback, they were nonetheless amused by my extreme team pride and enthusiasm.

Thankfully, the Quiz Mistress also smiled, and with her gesture, it seemed that the air returned to the room. My cheeks burned with the thought of whispers going 'round the room: "She's American."

How had I allowed myself to become a "loud, American" cliche? Perhaps, this cliche, is not so cliche, after all?...

My feeling of "having let down the side" continued as the Quiz progressed. Determined to prove my smarts I was ready to "rock 'n roll"--as I am often wont to do--in Arts, Literature and Popular Culture. I dazzled my team by knowing Madonna's proper name (Madonna Louise Ciccone).

But, then, the humiliating change of fortune as I was blindsided by two questions centred on iconic Americana: "In what American city was Coca Cola invented?" I KNEW the answer was Atlanta, but I didn't trust myself, and said: "Chicago."

Then, the ultimate: "What was Judy Garland's real name?" If only this had been the sort of quiz where you can phone a friend. I mean, really I should know this! I used to live in the West Village, for goodness sake, just blocks away from Stonewall, and how many gay men do I know??! And, I worked in the theatre! But, for all that, I could not recall her name to save my life. Of course, I know now that it is: Frances Ethel Gumm. I will go my grave knowing that name. ARRGH!!!

"Never mind," said Diane in her soothing Scots voice. But I did mind. And, I vowed to myself then and there that I would redeem my wounded reputation. A week later, I gave Di a call: "There's a quiz on up at The Granville next week, let's do it."

Di is splendid, and always up for a quiz challenge. The ever supportive and super-smart D.E.B. made our third team member. We were ready.

"This is going to fun." The D.E.B. said, putting his arm around me as we huddled together against the cold, and walked up to our favo(u)rite water hole. "Fun?!" I exclaimed, "No, we have to win."

To my surprise, the atmosphere at the Granville Pub Quiz was completely different to that of the W.I. quiz. (Where, I failed to mention, two teams nearly came to blows disputing the correctness of an answer.) All the teams at the Granville Quiz had very cute or cheeky names. The D.E.B. dubbed us "Shakespeare in Love" -- as it was a pre-Valentine's Day quiz. There was one team present who called themselves: "Norfolk and Chance" (say it fast, and with a slight Irish accent). And funnily enough they did walk away with the wooden spoon for having the lowest score.

This quiz was so much fun! Everyone laughed and joked. The wine flowed, and all the questions seem to fall in our favo(u)r: "Which pop diva played Wallis' girlfriend on the American television sitcom 'Different Strokes'?"; "The line 'If music be the food of love, play on' is from what Shakespeare play?" Excellent.

We blasted through the Classic Film round (Thank you, Dr. Zhivago!); and Di and The DEB rocked out in the "Character Couples" round that wanted to know the names of British soap opera pairs and partners, even though neither of them watch much telly. The DEB reigned supreme on science and technology, and shocked me by knowing some obscure fact about Christina Aguilera. But my absolute favorite moment was the "All or Nothing" round.

The "All or Nothing" round, as the title suggests, is exactly what it implies. You answer as many questions as you can, but if you get any answers wrong in that section, you lose the entire section, right answers and wrong ones alike. Of course the point is to get as many as you can absolutely right, but there's no room for guessing.

So, in this round, the last question of the night surfaced: "What is the name of Hank's wife, in the American television cartoon series 'King of the Hill'?"

I closed my eyes. Peggy. A voice in my head whispered. I knew I was right, but I wasn't sure. I could hear the Southern drawl of the be-spectacled, cartoon Everyman, Hank, saying her name. "Peggy," I said aloud softly to my team mates. Di's eyebrows lifted and she smiled, "You sure?" I took a breath, and said "...Yes..."

Without hesitating, The DEB wrote the answer down onto our sheet. The Adjudicator came round to collect the sheets. "Wait!" I implored, "What if I'm wrong?" "Sweetheart," said the rock-steady DEB, taking my hand in his, "it's just game."

As the scores were tallied, I apologised profusely to my beloved team mates. Then, after "Norfolk 'n Chance" were awarded the "Wooden Spoon" for their total of 11 points, "Shakespeare in Love" were declared the winners with 81 points! This time, the rebel yell was a collective one! "Whoo-woo" and "Yee-haw," indeed!!

My chum, Di, with a fine, feathered friend

Not your Granny's W.I.

Joining the Barford W.I. was one the best decisions I’ve ever made.  When I joined in September, I had an image in my head that most people—particularly Americans—probably have of the Women’s Institute: Endearing and enduring, old, English matrons who represent and uphold—with very stiff upper lips, of course—all that is “middle England.” Oh, and of course, Calendar Girls. Lovely. And in many ways that is what it is, and is true. But, I also see that there is more to W.I. than just “jam & Jerusalem”.

First of all, these ladies know how to have a laugh.  Last night’s W.I. Christmas “do” at The Glebe Hotel was fantastic! Our gathering started around 7:30 PM (half 7, as we say here) in The Glebe’s lovely, art deco bar.  There, we were greeted by our Lady President for “welcoming drinks”. Social hour was followed by a full, festive Christmas dinner with all the trimmings: turkey, with stuffing and sausage, roast potatoes, veggies, gravy, and cranberry sauce. We were escorted to our seats by restaurant staff in formal attire. Each of the tables was named after an English Christmas Pantomime favo(u)rite: “Dick Whittington,” “Puss in Boots,” and etc.

I had chosen a place at the “Cinderella” table with my friend Diane. Diane and I decided that the Cinderella table was the “bad girl” table. Mind you, I think every table at this event was a “bad girl” table! Although many of the “Cinderellas” were being decidedly “cheeky” in their refusal to don the festive hats that had been placed at each of our places, along with a Christmas cracker. Being fond as I am of wearing character hats for no particular reason, I happily joined in the fun, and donned my pirates’ hat with pride.

I’ve always been utterly fascinated by the concept of the British “Christmas cracker” and do wonder how (and why) we come have to have lost this “old country” tradition in America. For me, the Christmas cracker epitomizes the British sense of Christmas as a time of magic, merriment and fun.

During our luscious meal, the Restaurant Manager went from table-to-table performing magic tricks for a highly skeptical and increasingly inebriated female audience. He didn’t stand a chance. But, he actually did quite well. After dessert, that was of course, Christmas pudding, it was our turn to perform. Time for toasts and jokes. I have to say that the zinger Auntie Dorothy had given me went down a treat. I got a rousing round of applause and laughter, and had several requests for email copies of the joke.

I got four-stars for my “performance” of the joke – which means a lot to me, as I was nervous as heck, and longed to overcome my well deserved reputation as a “duff” joke-teller. As my friends will concur, when telling a joke, I inevitably amuse myself, laugh uncontrollably, and end up hashing the joke altogether. So, just making it through with a straight face was a coup for me, and let me tell ya, the Barford W.I.  can be a tough crowd.

An example. At our December meeting, last week, the Guest Speaker was a London Music Hall historian, and his presentation went up like a lead balloon. Bless him. I thought he was super. He shared details of the careers of a number of notable stage sensations from 1920s London. Periodically, throughout his lecture, he would burst into song, suddenly performing one of the legendary tunes of time. Apparently, the tunes were not legendary enough. He belted out the old classic: “When’re ya takin’ me up th’ altar, Walter,” and when he reached the chorus, he stretched out his arms towards the assembled women, paused dramatically, and waited for us to join the rousing refrain. No one did. He was a trooper, and in true stage form, the show went on. And on.  The W.I. member sitting next to me, who’s at least 70, if she’s a day, leaned over and whispered in my ear: “How old does he think we all are? He needs an audience that’s at least 15 years older.”

After trying unsuccessfully to win the group over with old show tunes, he tried some old, classic, music hall jokes:

“A man takes his girlfriend out for a picnic in a park. They reach a quiet spot, and the man sits on the ground. He pats the ground next to him and says, ‘Some dew.’ His girlfriend exclaims: ‘Well, some don’t!’”

(I snickered softly in the back row, as the sound of tumbleweed drifting through the room could be heard.)

“A man takes his wife out for dinner at a posh hotel. As they walk through the double doors, a gorgeous blonde sashays past them. She flicked her hair, wiggled her hips and winked at the man as she went by. ‘Who was that woman?’ exclaimed the wife. ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said the husband, ‘I’m going to have a tough enough time explaining who you are to her in the morning.’”

(I snorted loudly in the deadly silent room.)

 “Two men in a pub. One says: ‘What are you getting your wife for Christmas?’ The other says: ‘A violin.’ ‘Oh, really,’ asks the first man, ‘is she musical?’ ‘No,’ the man responds, ‘but she needs a chin rest.’”

(I howled with laughter, amid the sound of crickets in the distance.)

These gals were not cutting this poor guy any slack whatsoever, and THAT made it all the more funny! But, needless to so, after seeing this poor guy lose his shirt, I was more than a little concerned about my own “performance” at the W.I. Christmas “do”. But, it went down really well, and there is a bit of mercy and grace in being a newbie. I’m just glad I had the guts to do to it all. It’s made me a bit of celeb around Barford. I have people coming up to me in the local shop saying, “Oh, I hear you told a cracking joke the other night at the W.I. dinner.” There are worst ways to be known, for sure.

In addition to my “zinger” I think the other top joke at the dinner was this one, told by my jam & preserve making hero, Hilary:

 “A couple goes along to the doctor’s. The doctor says he has some serious news for them, and wants to speak to the wife privately. The wife goes into the doctor’s office, and the doctor says: ‘I’m afraid your husband is in a truly bad way, very grave condition. But with your cooperation he could make it through this. Here is what we need you to do. Restructure his diet. Dutifully prepare for him three, solid, wholesome meals a day. The same time every day. All his favorite foods. Keep him comfortable. Let him have a drink when he wants to. No chores or extra tasks after work. Don’t make any demands, don’t complain, argue or badger him. And make love whenever he wants, as often as he wants. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Doctor.’ The wife says. The wife then leaves the doctor’s office. As the couple leave the surgery, the husband turns to the wife as says, ‘What did he say?’ The wife responds: ‘I’m sorry, dear. You’re going to die.’”

Brilliant.

But, the W.I. isn’t just about jokes and lemon curd. At the W.I. dinner, I also heard about one of the Federation of Women’s Institute resolutions for 2009: a campaign to legalize prostitution in Britain. I was more than a little surprised. This seemed a rather a strong proposition for a jam-friendly organization that has “For Home & Country” as one if its mottoes. But, then, as this was discussed over “welcoming drinks,” it became clear to me that this stance isn’t at all discordant with W.I. values, but rather well within them.

My wise friend, Diane, explained: “The W.I. stands for women.  And is committed to the welfare and safety of all women. All women. Every woman is someone’s daughter, regardless to where life may find her. That street walker is someone’s daughter, and she deserves to be safe.” 

This resolution grew out of the concern expressed by a local W.I. (in Bedford, I believe) following the murder of five prostitutes in their city. But, the concern is also one that the W.I. believes registers much closer to home, a concern for “the countless, good British wives who are walking around with no idea that they have been infected with an STD/STI.” The thinking runs thus: prostitution has and will always exist, so by creating some sort of regulatory standard in legalizing prostitution will ensure the health and safety of the sex workers, the clientele, and their (the clientele’s) families. This ain’t your Granny’s W.I., sister. I mean no offense to my countrywomen, but I can’t even imagine a member of the “Junior League” or “Daughters of the American Revolution” even using the terms “prostitution” or “STI/STD” in a sentence, let alone as the basis for a resolution or nationwide campaign! (Please forgive me, if my perceptions of these two revered institutions of American womanhood are not as staid as I assume.)

Such progressive and forward thinking is at the heart of the modern British W.I. We’ve gone way passed the now-infamous calendar, girls. The modern W.I. is tackling all sorts of issues of importance to the modern woman. Chins dropped recently when the Times reported on a recent W.I. development: sex guides for the over-60s. Of course, snickering could be heard from one end of the country to the other, but, I have to say, yet, again, I am impressed and inspired by the sheer chutzpah of the women of W.I. The guides are cover a range of topics, such as age and mobility issues; martial aids/devices; intimacy and libido; masturbation; and STDs/STIs. The videos are presented by Mrs. Janice Langley, a 66 year-old, West Sussex W.I. member, who is also a registered Nurse and sex therapist.  Janice’s presentation is frank, friendly, and straightforward.

Tastefully done, and filmed in Janice’s home, you feel as if you’ve just stopped ‘round to hers for a cup of tea, and a quiet chat. Janice’s tone is warm, conversational and friendly. However, this stuff is far from laughable, though the press mill has had a field day making fun of it.  Janice’s presentation is frank and candid. And there were even a few points that made a closet conservative gal like me blush a little.

I think the media’s reaction to this series of W.I. sex guides says a great deal about our present-day attitudes about older people, especially older women, and sex: ‘It’s all well and good, as long as the old dears stick to baking cakes, making jam and knitting.’ Indeed. I would wager that these naysayers will feel quite differently about it when they are over 60.

I think these videos are a testament to a contemporary “Old Age” renaissance. A renaissance that is long overdue. A movement against the tide, defiantly declaring: How old is old? To me, these videos and the women behind them are beacons of hope. There are possibilities for life, pleasure and fulfillment after 60, after heart attacks, or a stroke. And it is never too late to for love.

And, that is no laughing matter.

p.s. Three clips of the Women’s Institute Sex Guides are available on YouTube.