My American wife and I had decided that the time had come to make a serious change in our lives. It began with a Petition, then an Application followed by a Biographical form. I thought I’d dotted all the i’s and crossed the t’s but it was rejected when I handed it in. “No, no,” I was told. “We’ve got a new form now.” Not my fault. But it meant a new form of police certification to show that I had no ‘past or previous’. Trudging back to the police station in London for another signature; then, a protracted search of establishments to find the form concerning my RAF discharge. (I’d completed my two-year National Service back in 1956. Any evidence would by now, have gone AWOL.)
Finally in June the correct corrected form arrived. Next a medical exam, followed by an interview. We were able to prove we were above the poverty line but not above forking over £380 ($570) for the application, another £170 ($250), (and don’t forget the tax) for the medical exam - in London’s Harley Street, no less. The All Clear arrived on July 18th and to validate it, required that I appear in the U.S.A. within six months or stagger through the whole malarkey again.
So there I stood confronted by that benign Immigration Officer who’d noticed we’d been married eleven years ago and wondered why I hadn’t applied to immigrate immediately. What kept me? Life!
To put the picture straight - my American wife had lived in England longer than in her homeland. Pat came over with her (late) screenwriter husband in the early 60s to write as a team among other things such iconic programs as The Avengers, Danger Man, The Saint, etc., and just stayed on to write a film or eight. Barbara (Pat Silver-Lasky’s her writing name) and I met sixteen years ago. With no encumbrances like small children or animals, we could look towards the silvery sunset together, though in wintry Britain the sunsets are mostly gray. And we of the gray brigade wanting a bit more sunshine in our still active lives, decided to head for California. Neither of us have any intention of retiring since I’m a cartoonist/artist and Pat’s a writer/screenwriter though I’ve warned her screenwriters never die - they just fade out. Unless of course the director inserts a jump cut.
Pat's latest novel, available from Amazon IS N978-1451510188
Our friends spoke in wonderment at our ‘bravery’ at picking up sticks for fresher fields despite the credit crunch and a deflated Pound. And what besides friends did we leave behind? Free bus passes, free medicine, free hearing aid batteries and hospitals, museums, expensive restaurants, theatres and heating bills.
“California? Oh, you’ll miss the seasons. All that eternal sunshine!” David said. True, in our beloved London we had experienced four seasons in a day: sun, rain, fog and snow. It was time for a change so here we are now on the glorious coast of Orange County with its earthquakes, floods and forest fires in what began as an upbeat USA with a new President. We wanted to be part of the Obama excitement…Boy did we get it! But the 'excitement' these characters below (plus political and financial others) have created, is not quite what we had envisaged. So, we too, are waiting for a revival of the great American dream.
Schwarzenegger, Obama, Bernanke & Paulson by Peeby
It’s not my first time in this country. That was 1973 during the oil crisis, and England was enjoying working three-day weeks. America saved energy by burning one string less of lights at the gas stations. Saving my holiday entitlements for two years afforded me a seven weeks break. (The boss never allowed that again!) My son and I were strolling down the street in Sacramento having already been stopped by a policeman who’d asked why Graham wasn’t in school. I assured the cop that he was getting an education.
He was. Around the corner Graham noticed a wino lurching unsteadily in our path. My fatherly advice: “Just ignore him. He’ll only beg for money.” As I strode steadily ahead, the wino mumbled something. When Graham caught up with me I frowned. “You see? You see? Asked you for a handout, didn’t he?”
“Dad, you didn’t hear him, did you?” he replied with the hint of a smirk. “He said ‘Tell your father his flies are undone!’”
Needless to say, he was right.
Thank you America. You care.
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