Open Writing

Our good friend, Tony, takes James to an airfield nearby and lets him drive his automatic car a few times before we're able to change ours and sort out a provisional licence. This is something grown-up, something James gets
to do before any of his friends, something he really needs.

We trade in my car for a clutch-less Renault Clio. The technology is quite new for the cheaper, 'compact' end of the market. You still have to change gears, unlike an automatic transmission, but it's cheaper to buy and has better fuel consumption and performance. Apparently, it uses technology developed for Formula One racing cars, which pleases our son.

Tingling with anticipation, I hurry from work to collect my new purchase. I fill in all the last-minute paperwork, sign over my old vehicle and walk out to take possession of the new one. To my horror, it's the wrong car. I have ordered, paid for and need, five doors and this one only has three.
'What are you going to do?' the poor salesman asks. He looks awful, his colour has become a green shade of blanched milk and I can see a series of outcomes, each worse than the last, parade across his face.

'What am I going to do?' 'echoes in my mind. I have become so accustomed to unexpected blows; I don't even feel angry, just deflated. I suggest they give me a courtesy car and then I will collect the proper Clio in a week.

James is even more disappointed than I am, desperate as he is to drive 'his' new car. There is bewilderment and frustration in his angry words and the slamming sounds that follow him to his room. He clearly doesn't understand why the world seems to have turned against him.

A week later, I am sitting beside my son, peering between my scrunched-up lashes, fingers gripping the dash board and trying to breathe without screaming. Teaching ones' own precious child how to drive is one of life's more terrifying experiences. I am suddenly overwhelmed with a new appreciation and gratitude for my own father, who had so patiently helped me to practise my new skills decades earlier.

James loves driving and seems to learn quite easily. Our main concern is over-confidence and a tendency to lose concentration when chatting.
With his exams finished, James won't give much away, just tells us to expect the worst and hope for the best. Now, faced with nearly ten weeks holiday before beginning sixth-form college, we have divergent ideas of how he should spend his time. I think ironing, cooking and helping the rest of his working family, whereas he leans towards sleeping in, watching films and messing about with his friends. All of which is wonderfully normal. Getting a part-time job seems very problematical but eventually his previous employers at the newsagents take him on for a few hours a week in the shop.

*

In May 1976, the year after my first trip to England, I needed a summer job but didn't want to go home to live with my dad and stepmother. I found a position working as a nanny for a family in Boston who ran two children's summer camps. I was incredibly frugal but my dad was still horrified when he realised I was setting off for a city I'd never been to, 700 miles from home, to live with a family I'd never met, with only $3 (about £1.50) in my purse. Even in those days, it wasn't much money.

It was an interesting family. The father was Jewish and worked from home, during the winter, on the administration for the summer camps they owned. The mother had been a nun but since converted to Judaism and was studying at home for her PhD in psychology. The child was a little girl of four years old and I was her twelfth nanny, I think. Any time I told her she couldn't do something that I felt might be dangerous or inappropriate; she would run screaming to her parents. They would pet and cuddle her and make comments to the effect that I was in the wrong.

I was very grateful that the job would only be for two months, after which I would become a camp counsellor at one of their camps in Maine for eight weeks before returning to university. It was a wonderful time to be in Boston, as it was the US Bicentennial and I enjoyed using my days off to follow the Paul Revere trail and explore the historic city.

The summer camp was an experience. It was for Jewish girls, the boys' camp was nearby. The children were sent for eight weeks with a weekend in the middle for parents to visit, if they could or wanted to. I lived in a cabin with the six youngest girls, aged four to six. One of these was my former charge, the daughter of the owner, and one belonged to the other counsellor assigned to my cabin. Her husband worked in the boy's camp with their son and they saw this as a way of offering their children opportunities they might otherwise never have.

And it was a wonderful camp. It was huge, attractive and clean with log cabins and superb facilities, set in magnificent forests. I went with the little ones to their various activities throughout the day and supported them as they learned to swim, dance, act, sing, ride, trek in the hills, play tennis and a range of other games. But we also coped with the tears, nightmares and wet beds.

One day the owner's beautiful white Samoyed dog slipped into the fast flowing river and was weighed down by his heavy, wet fur. The banks were steep and, without thinking, I jumped in and pulled him out. I was bitten, had to go for a tetanus shot and was told off for my efforts but at least the dog was safe.

There was also a hurricane warning one night and the camp was evacuated to sleep in a local school. I volunteered, with a few others, to stay and look after the horses. We rushed about doing little bits of nothing, endlessly discussing the noises we could hear, pretending an assurance we didn't feel. I'm not sure what we would have done to help the horses had a hurricane actually hit, but nothing really happened apart from a very windy night.

My friend and university roommate, Kathy, was at the camp as well, but we were kept so busy we had little time for anything else. Being a year ahead of me she, and the other two girls that I had shared various accommodations with since beginning university, graduated that summer. In the autumn, I returned to my studies and shared an apartment with an anaesthetist called Ona. She worked shifts and led a full and very private life. I was kept busy working part-time and completing the courses needed to achieve my degree.

Through these busy years of learning, I continued to pray sporadically and read the Bible as well as other Christian books from time to time. Two books by Catherine Marshall stand out in my memory. In one, To Live Again, she talks about how she struggled to build a new life after the death
of her beloved husband including insights, which I could relate to my own experiences, after the loss of my Mom.

In the other, The Helper, she described how the Holy Spirit worked in her life and could be that unexpected but persistent idea that seems to pop into your mind from nowhere to phone someone or do something you hadn't planned. She'd discovered over the years that it was always best to listen when it happened.

Her observation, that a day that didn't start with a prayer often felt unsatisfactory, seemed also to be mirrored in my life. I tried to be more disciplined because I longed for that quality that could be present when I invited God to join me in my day. The problem was that rigid discipline can result in formulaic, robotic prayer and He knows the difference. As with any relationship, it demanded time, energy and commitment.

My plan was to become a child psychologist, like my mother, but felt I would benefit from some life experience before attempting to help other people with their problems. I had majored in Social Sciences with a minor in psychology and a second minor in education, hoping that teaching would enable me to gain that experience and earn the money I would need to continue my studies. I had been accepted into a Master's Degree programme in Florida for the following autumn and only had my teaching practice to do before I could graduate.

Spotting an opportunity to do that placement in England, on an exchange course, I remembered the primary school I had visited there. It somehow seemed right. Later I would come to recognise that 'right' feeling as direction from God. Without hesitation, the girl who was once so ill from homesickness after just a night away from home, signed up for four months across an ocean.