The Wastepaper Basket

It was clear when Wales had run its course, but pulling myself away was like pulling teeth. My host mother Alma had made it clear that I was welcome to stay as long as my visa would allow– she even waved the chance of payment under my nose, but somehow conveniently forgot about it before it was time for me to go. Alma was handy in this way– she never stayed in one place, and neither did her mind… or her mood. She had been the one to find me my next job, and for that I was eternally grateful. Not only for the fact that my host family was willing to let me go off to a new family, but for the fact that I could be free. 

The Norstrom’s house was so different from the place I was raised in many ways– the fact that they had a live-in nanny, for one. Or that the bungalow had been built by a former sea-captain relative; or best of all, that the family’s largest disagreement was on what country they would go to for Christmas holiday. There was one week that they were invited to go on a last minute trip to Ibiza– it was funny to see all of them try to explain that this was very out of the ordinary for them, that they would normally never be able to even dream about going on a trip like this so last minute– and then a few weeks later, there would be a conversation like the one I have dubbed “the taco incident”

Alma and her husband Colin had been settling details of a family trip they would be taking– they traveled with the kids a few times I was there, giving me the whole house to myself. This time would be all family, in the south of England. The main point of interest was the fact that the Norstroms had been assigned to cook the Friday night dinner. Alma and Colin had both talked back and forth for a while, without agreement.

“Well what do we think about tacos?” Colin offered. (I never get used to the english pronunciation of tacos. It was one of the few words I had to mimic in the same accent, or the kids wouldn’t understand what I was saying)

Alma’s face wrinkled in disgust– she had a defined, sharp face at 55, and the faces she made were legendary. This one was an absolute caricature of disgust. 

“Tacos for a friday night dinner?” she asked incredulously. “I don’t think so, that’s awfully boring isn’t it?”

(both families I worked with that season used the word boring in a  completely foreign way to me– to an upper class English family, the word boring is something bordering on criminal. My only guess is that to the posh, inconvenience is an assault on their existence akin to having ones house burned down)

Alma thought for a minute while Colin had to admit, tacos didn’t sound proper for a Friday night family dinner. That’s when Alma’s face lit up with inspiration.

“I know!” she cried. “What about fondue!”

And I kid you not– this idea was answered with CHEERS from the children, all crying “yes, mummy! Please lets!”

The Nordstrom’s obliviousness to their own status wasn’t what turned my stomach. It was actually amusing, in hindsight. If the privilege had been a problem, the next family would certainly have never been an option– the Covens were godparents of the Nordstrom children, an upper class London family that had their dogs pedigree status framed in their bathroom. (right next to photos of their yearly trip to burning man) 

What really bothered me was the absolute maze of expectations that everyday turned into. That’s what reminded me of home– although an employee, I was often “in trouble” at the Norstrom house, for reasons and rules I could never follow. Once I was scolded for using the wrong grater for cheese a week before being asked to fetch the same grater— for the same brand of cheese. I was supposed to be always handy, but never in the way– when I asked for deadlines, times, I was sure to be shouted at later, as Alma had apparently changed her mind without saying a word. Another time I was reprimanded for asking for medicine when Alma was busy– after I had waited patiently, I was scolded again for waiting for medicine when I so clearly needed it.

In many ways, I think Alma’s attitude of unquestioning, silencing authority made me better at speaking up for myself. It was after I left that I compared it to Alice in Wonderland, meeting the Queen of Red Hearts. Alice’s meek, polite upbringing didn’t help her at all– it was as if the rules changed only because she tried to follow them. And if you can’t win the game, why play it?

I was surprised by how many feelings were stirred up when it was time for me to leave– and surprised still that my leaving was all due to Alma’s work. All the times I talked about wanting to live in the city, all the times I talked about trying to find paid work, she really listened. She gave me time off to take a weekend to test out the Coven’s, and was the one to drive me to the bus stop. She gave me hand me down clothes to make sure my wardrobe was warm enough– let me keep my extra books in her attic, and made sure all the children spent time saying goodbye. And at the last moment, she was the one to slip 80 pounds into my hands, her eyes full of tears, thanking me for all I had done. I didn’t lie to myself, telling myself that I should be guilty for all the feelings I had towards her– but let myself feel the strange, contradictory love of a warped but oddly beautiful person. After all… it wasn’t as if my next home would be nearly as catastrophic, would it? Would it?

Taking the bus out of Wales, it was hard to see it as anything as the lush, green, summery place as when I had arrived. Even through the dry branches and brittle grass, I remember looking back and realizing that for better or for worse, this place held on to me. 

It’s been two years since I left Wales, with little contact back. But of all the places I’ve travelled, it’s the one I think of semi-constantly. Though my praying days are practically over now, my few prayers are to see that place again; to find whatever it was I left behind in Hay on Wye.