Casper's Advice

Casper, is a sociable fellow. If I'm in the kitchen, he hangs out nearby, in the family room. If I'm sewing, he strolls in, tail aloft, and curls into a ball on a stool by the window, killing two birds with one stone---sunshine and company. Or, if I'm working on a quilt,he'll position himself, with a languid stretch, in the middle of it.[He thinks I make them solely for that purpose.] So,it's a no-brainer. If I'm on the computer he's right there at my feet, snoozing away companionably, or frequently, in my lap, having a blog read right along with me.

In this way he became aware that there are kittens out there. At Isabelle's, to be exact. So for the past week he's been giving me no peace. He wants a shot at being a guest blogger. What can I say? This animal is my roommate, friend, confidante, cuddler, and comforter. It would be churlish to refuse. Without further ado, here's Casper,cat extraordinaire.



"Greetings Bloggers! She [who must be humoured] thinks I'm suddenly interested in blogging. Not so. Blogging makes me yawn. But, sitting on her lap recently, I caught a glimpse of some very fetching kittens, which made me sit up and pay attention. I am of the opinion that kittens get way too little advice from grown up cats,and I would like to rectify that situation for Sirius and Cassie, by giving them the benefit of my own experience.

People like to think they own us cats. They even think they can train us. Harmless myths. Ones you might want to play along with in the interests of keeping them happy. Just as long as you never forget that it is you who own them, and you who need to make sure that they are properly trained.

The most important things in a cat's life, I'm sure you will both agree, are, food, comfort, grooming, playtime, comfort, clean litter, comfort, more food, and the biggies, relaxation and sleep. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it, comfort.

Food is essential. Without it you will never grow into the lithe, graceful, creatures you are meant to be. You should establish at the outset, that you will not settle for just any food. Make sure they provide you with a varied diet. If, every time you come to your dish, with a great hunger on you, and find there the same boring old dry food, be brave. Stalk away in disdain, even though you feel faint. This will worry them enough that they will go to the store and fetch something new,with which to tempt you. This behaviour should be reinforced, perhaps by a little reward, such as, after you have partaken of the new delicacy, climbing into a lap, and purring appreciatively. They will be charmed with you and will know how to respond the next time you turn your nose up at the offerings in your dish.

Early in your life with your people you should ascertain which are the most comfortable chairs and claim them as your own. This may take some perseverance, but the results will be worth it. The first time he comes home from work and finds you curled up in his favourite chair, the man of the house is likely to be grumpy, and perhaps even go so far as to shove you off. By acting injured and hurt by this ungentlemanly behaviour you can win other members of the family to your side. Enough "Poor kitty!"s and "How could you Dad's," and you'll be well on your way to ownership of that chair. Of course you don't want to alienate him altogether. After all, he is labouring under the illusion that it is his house. It might be best to try to work out a compromise wherein you share the chair.


People are naive. When they are new to cat co-habitation they have no idea of what fun we can have with ordinary things. Lace curtains, fluttering in the breeze, for instance, are there to be climbed. The tantalising wiggle of yarn, as the lady in your life works on her knitting, is an invitation to a romp, with the aim of getting deliciously tangled in it. We practice our hunting skills by capering after the shadows cast by sunlight on walls, and by stalking every bug who has the temerity to crawl across the carpet. Paper sacks from the grocery store make the greatest hiding places. And boxes. Insist that they keep a variety of boxes around for you to play hide and seek in. Likewise baskets. Who can resist an adorable kitten curled up in a basket? However, they should be of high quality, not those substandard objects sold as "cat beds." Settle only for the handmade variety..... They'll buy "toys" for you, but feel free to ignore them. It will finally dawn on them to put a little creative effort into your toys. A feather, for instance, can provide hours of enjoyment. And who would want a store bought "mouse" when a much better creature can be achieved with some good quality fur and a piece of string?

Sleeping arrangements are another thorny subject. My own mistress has a very comfy down comforter on her bed. My favourite place to sleep at night is on this comforter, exactly where her feet are. Which makes her cranky, so I am sometimes forced to move, temporarily, to another part of the bed. I just wait until her breathing sounds deep and even. Then reposition myself, if not on, then right next to, her feet.

If, when morning comes, your people are not rising with sufficient alacrity, you can approach the problem in one of several ways. My own first resort is to approach the sleeping head on it's pillow, find the nose, and give it a gentle nudge. If this doesn't work, repeat, a little more forcefully. But proceed with caution. They tend to be difficult to reason with before they have that first cup of coffee. If you're still not getting the desired results, remove yourself to the door of the room, and yowl piteously. Just be ready to dodge flying slippers. Persistence again, is key. You will soon have them dancing to your tune.

One last thing worth mentioning. It's okay to love your people. As long as you do it with dignity. No dog-like slobbering please. And remember to maintain an air of mystery, like me......


.....just to keep them guessing.

Well bloggers, this has been exhausting, but I felt I had a duty to kittendom.I may not have covered everything, but I've made a start. Happy romping,Cassie and Sirius, and please let my mistress know if you have any questions. I will be available again right after I take my afternoon nap. As I mentioned earlier, blogging makes me yawn."

There you have it folks. From Casper's mouth to the kittens' ears. Who knew he would be so long-winded? Cassie and Sirius probably dropped off for a nap after the first paragraph. But it'll all be here on the blog when they have questions.......


Postscript: A comment from Thimbleanna sent me scurrying to her blog to do some intensive snooping. Got caught up reading, and so was taken by surprise when I scrolled back some more---to her June 26 th. post and there looking out at me was a gorgeous relative of Casper's! Scruff, by name. Go check it out. I swear I had no idea! Great minds indeed!

An Embarrassment of Figs

I spent an hour today harvesting figs. And yesterday. And the day before. I expect I’ll do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that……

Several years ago, new to Florida, we innocently planted a little fig sapling. It arrived in a small box in the mail. There were no warnings attached. Nothing to indicate that this little sapling would grow into a monster fig tree and inundate us, for at least a month each year, with the fruit of its loins.

Our knowledge of figs was limited. I’ve heard that fig leaves were the cool thing to wear in the Garden of Eden. The OC grew up on fig newtons. I grew up on their Irish equivalent, fig rolls. They wouldn’t have made it onto a list of my ten favourite cookies. We were totally unprepared for how delicious fresh figs are, picked warm from the tree and popped directly into your mouth. Edible sunshine.

I hauled the ladder to the tree this morning to pick today’s crop. They’re ripe when they turn golden and their texture is soft. I stretched and reached and teetered, climbing up and down to deposit my loot in the bucket. Where the ladder wouldn’t go, I intrepidly went, risking life and arthritic limb.

And got scolded by a cheeky bird who ignored my efforts to shoo him, hopping from branch to branch, so close to me that I could, at considerable risk of ending up in the hospital, have reached out and throttled the bugger.

“Excuse me bird---whose fig tree is this anyway? I’m a reasonable woman. I’ll share. Just quit your squawking and flapping!” When I regaled The Bean with my bird tale later he asked ---

“Brown bird? Speckled? Long beak? Bad attitude?”
“Yes!” I said, “that’s him.”
“I know him,” he said.
“He’s the one who sits on the wire while I’m picking the blackberries,that I grew, and squawks at me, as though I was stealing from him! Yeah. His days are numbered.”


Anyhow. The purpose of this post is to beg for HELP! If anyone out there has tried-and-true recipes for using up a gazillion figs I’d love to hear about them. The neighbours are starting to bar their doors and hide when they see us coming, fig-laden. And we’ve eaten them ‘til our bellies ache. We need creative suggestions for the fig inundation. H.E.L.P!!

.......And Beaches.....

Islanders are, of course, magnetically drawn to beaches. They have no choice. Must.regularly.fill.lungs.with.salty.sea.air. Or curl up and die.

Which is why, when we were growing up, the sweetest words our parents could say, on a warm Sunday after Mass, were "Let's go to the seaside!"

While Dad organised the picnic basket, Mum rolled up her sleeves and started making sandwiches.

Lahinch, on the coast of Co. Clare, was about forty miles away. Forty very long miles. As we got closer, we watched like hawks, each of us wanting to be first to see the sea. When the shout went up, we craned forward from the back seat, riveted by the distant gleam of the ocean.

We had to curb our enthusiasm, however, until we found the perfect sheltered hollow in the sand dunes. Blankets were spread and swimsuits wriggled into. Dad set about dolacawling* with the little stove and kettle to make tea, mother set about roasting herself, and we scattered.

Brother made a beeline for the rocks to watch the relentlessly crashing waves. Little sister built sandcastles, and permitted the smaller waves to chase her. And I went leaping like a goat over the smooth rocks separating the dunes from the beach. There was giddy exhilaration in leaping from one to the other, so sure-footed that I knew, while airborne, exactly which rock I'd land on. I sometimes wonder if all that rock lepping had anything to do with the less than nimble condition of my feet now....

And shells! The toy has not yet been invented that could enthrall me as thoroughly as a seashell. On every trip to the sea I'd haul home another load, maternal protests notwithstanding. They were, and still are, endlessly fascinating.

Lahinch is a wide, sweeping arc of golden bliss. When we tired, temporarily, of rock lepping and sandcastle building, we'd go dancing into the waves, and skitter back as a huge one threatened, and advance again, shivering and giggling, and jump with each approaching swell,in a futile attempt to keep from getting completely wet. Eventually we'd surrender, and let the sea have her way with us, and come up laughing and gasping for air. Even on the hottest day in July, the Atlantic is COLD. Exhilarated, and covered in goose bumps, we'd dash for our hollow in the dunes. And lie on outspread towels, hugging the warm sand, until our teeth ceased their chattering.

And then, for sure, we'd be ready for those sandwiches. My mother was a farmer's daughter, so you'd expect that sandwiches made by her, for children rendered ravenous by the salty sea, would be great agricultural slabs of things. But you'd be wrong. Somewhere between the farm and the beach, our mum had fallen in love with things genteel. The sandwiches, and there were plenty of them, fortunately, were dainty things, with the crusts neatly cut off. Suitable for ladylike nibbling at a bridge party. We were no ladies, and this was no bridge party. It was like tossing buns to elephants.

And tea by the sea. Oh my! Even though we drank it from the woefully inadequate blue plastic cups that came with the picnic basket,it was surely what the angels drank in heaven.

Sunscreen? Never heard of it. Must be for sissies. With our fair skin we regularly got roasted. Looking like a lobster was proof you'd been to the seaside.... Several days later we could be found,like our cousins the monkeys, engrossed in the ancient grooming ritual of removing crispy wisps of scorched skin from each others' backs.

**************************************************

Liz was born in the Mojave Desert. But her bones know, that even though she lives in land-locked Ohio she is really a sea nymph.


This is our sea nymph in her famous film star pose....

She came to meet us in Miami for a weekend while her aunt was visiting from Ireland. It poured rain, the better to make Auntie feel right at home. But at least it was warm. This fellow was better rigged out than we were for the downpour.


There were three of us, which meant, given our combined lack of expertise, we could only have two of us in any given picture. But we wanted three. Not possible. Unless......Unless we threw ourselves on the mercy of a stranger.....Which is how we came to accost an unsuspecting fellow who had just come onto the beach from his hotel. Running up to him, camera in hand, smiling ingratiatingly, I asked if he would mind doing us a favour. Almost immediately, I knew I'd made a mistake. Of all the cool, laid back people we could have met on the beach, we'd run into the lone,humourless stuffed shirt. As he tsk,tsked,like a fussy old hen who had chicks late in life, I tried to back away, mumbling apologies.

"I came out here to exercise," he said crossly, impatiently reaching for the camera. All business. So...oo.. Its a miracle we didn't stick our tongues out,like naughty children, when he clicked. We began to thank him effusively, the more so because he'd been less than delighted to be accosted by three lovely lassies. But, lo! He was getting into the beach spirit now. "I'll take one more," he said magnanimously. Then, brushing aside our thanks, he went twittering off down the beach, intent on his exercise. We didn't accost any more strangers. Lesson learned. At least 'til next time.


But we did get a picture of all three of us, and we did fill our lungs with enough salty sea air to last us for a while.....

*dolacawling---my phonetic spelling for an untranslatable word used in Ireland that loosely means "messing about with......" Don't say I never include educational content here.

Note: I am guardedly optimistic that I might have finally nailed the picture uploading thing....not to mention ecstatic! Bear with me for a while if I get carried away with my new found abilities.

Of Islanders.......

The word "islander" fills my head with Elvis, crooning songs from "Blue Hawaii". My mind's eye sees the hips of hula dancers undulating across the big screen in my head, their leis swaying to the ukelele music. My nose smells again the lovely perfume my Dad once bought for me called "Fiji". My toes itch for the grit of sand, and I just want to grab my bucket and shovel and head for the beach.

Because I too am an islander. I may not have the come-hither eyes or the lovely olive skin of Hawaiian hula girls. I may not have their undulating hips, or wear exotic flowers in my hair,or swish about in a grass skirt, but these were not requirements last time I checked. My pale eyes, freckled skin, and inability to undulate do not disqualify me. I am qualified by the mere fact that I was born on an island.

For all I know I could be descended from Vikings, those fearsome Scandinavian fellows with horns, who reputedly pillaged and looted all around my part of Ireland several centuries ago. And then, as our diminutive history teacher triumphantly told us, became more Irish than the Irish themselves. Which probably means they outdid the local lads in Guinness drinking and had all the lasses swooning over their stunning Nordic handsomeness.

So what of it, you say? What's the big deal? Well. If you must know, it makes me feel special. Being an "Islander" and all. It makes me feel like the ocean belongs to me. And I belong to the sea. Not that I'm brave or anything. I wouldn't be the one signing on for any Kon Tiki expeditions. I just love to be beside the sea. [Breaks into song---"I do like to be beside the seaside, I do like to be beside the sea, I do like to stroll along the prom prom prom, where the brass band plays, tiddly om pom pom...."

I guess it's really all about water. Rivers are good. Lakes are better. Oceans rock. The most soothing sound on the planet, to me, is the swoosh of waves hitting the shore. When you grow up on an island that sound is never far away. It hangs in the air and has a salty tang.......

One Word Meme

Rise up and left yesterday.
We had a fantastic month.
I was instructed not to mope.
Blogging could be defined as an anti-moping device.
So here goes.
I was tagged some time ago by Rise, and again by jkhenson


One-Word Responses



1. Where is your cell phone? You'reaskingME?
2. Relationship? Turbulent
3. Your hair? There
4. Work? Keptwoman
5. Your sister? Soulmate


6. Your favourite thing? Books
7. Your dream last night? Elusive
8. Your favourite drink? Tea
9. Your dream car? ModelT
10. The room you're in? Den


11. Your shoes? Slippers
12. Your fears? Everpresent
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? Dancing
14. Who did you hang out with at w/e? Family
15. What are you not good at? Electronics


16. Muffin? Poppyseed
17. Wish list item? Wand
18. Where you grew up? Limerick
19. The last thing you did? Commented
20. What are you wearing? Dress


21. What are you not wearing? Bra
22. Your pet? Meowing
23. Your computer? Slow
24. Your life? Interesting
25. Your mood? Apprehensive


26. Missing? Husbandsisterkids
27. What are you thinking about? Words
28. Your car? Focus
29. Your kitchen? Familiar
30. Your summer? Underway


31. Your favourite colour? Bluegreenlavender
32. Last time you laughed? Yesterday
33. Last time you cried? Yesterday
34. School? CouldI?
35. Love? Makestheworldgoround


I know this has been around for a while but I'd love to see responses from Little Miss Moi and Heartinsanfrancisco. No pressure, but if you'd like to do it, consider yourselves tagged.

May the Road "Rise" to Meet You......

It was the longest day of summer, June 21 st., my sister’s birthday. Six years is a gaping chasm when you’re fourteen and she’s eight, so we weren’t that close growing up. When I was twenty two and she was sixteen, I blithely wandered off to the other side of the world and the rest of my life.

She was a beautiful bridesmaid and I an immature bride. Love conquers all,“they” say. “They” neglected to mention that when SHE got married I might not be able to be there. “They” didn’t mention that when I had my first child, I’d miss sharing the magic with her, of watching her hold her first tiny niece. Nor that, if you stuck a skewer through the middle of the globe, we’d be living, respectively, where it went in, and where it came out again, when HER first child was born. That her children and mine would grow up strangers. Of course if I’d had half a brain I’d have figured a lot of this out for myself. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.

It was death, of all things, that brought us closer. First our dad’s, and ten years later our mum’s. We began to see each other as real people. Grown up people. Mothers ourselves.

The OC got assigned to Germany. He went on ahead while we stopped in Ireland. And had a great time, in spite of piddling rain, which made us so desperate, down by the sea, with a house full of energetic kids, that we even taught the BOYS how to knit!

Several years later we were back in Europe, this time in Belgium. We went to Ireland. Rise came to Brussels. Each time I realized, a little more, how much this little sister meant to me. That little kid I used to be so mean to, devising elaborate plots to dodge her when she wanted to play with me and my friends. I couldn’t remember those friends' faces anymore, but more and more, hers was the face I wanted to see. Who would’ve thunk [take your complaints to Merriam-Webster] we’d get another chance?

Without my even noticing it, her’s became the shoulder I cried on when life threw me curve balls. She can make me laugh while I’m still crying. Some wicked Rise wit, some sane Rise philosophy, a little dose of Rise comedy when the world gets you down....it was like a drug, and I was a full blown addict. She’s had tough times herself, and toughed it out, without any help from me. And become a wise, thoughtful, caring woman who I'd count myself lucky to stumble on as a friend, if we never had the good fortune to be related.

I don’t lead a charmed life. It’s pretty good, pretty average. But in the sister sweepstakes I hit the jackpot. I could have been an only child, or had only brothers, or, like Cinderella, had two ugly stepsisters. How many people come into your life who love and accept you, just the way you are? No, you can’t have her, but if you ever meet her, I’ll share. Just remember whose sister she is.

Yesterday was her birthday, the longest day of the year. She’s still six years younger than me. One woman we met, on our recent adventures said “Wait, wait, don’t tell me! Mother and daughter, right?” Not a woman I’d care to get to know any better, sniff. Should have whacked her with my cane.... Maybe it’s because my hair is au naturel, while hers is, ahem, enhanced! She soothed my ruffled feathers, when she finally stopped her delighted cackling, by saying it was too bad she wasn’t quick enough to reply, ”Yes, and isn’t mum looking great for her eighty years?”

In spite of little irritations like this, I no longer devise elaborate plots to give her the slip. Because I’m too busy figuring out how we can spend more time together. Now that our various children are more or less grown, we have a cunning plan to get together more often. When she goes home I’ll suffer for a while from the empty chair at the breakfast table. Coffee and tea won’t seem quite as delicious without her. I’ll miss the gleam in her eye that tells me she knows exactly what I’m thinking, before I even open my mouth. But I won’t start weeping just yet. I’m having too much fun. Happy Birthday Rise, me darlin’!

WANTED - Dead or Alive!

Rise, if you can believe that anyone heading south to beach and sun, would forget to pack a swimsuit, did. Forget to pack a swimsuit.

So one of our first gadabout adventures was a shopping trip. We had something frivolous in mind. In hot pink, or neon orange, or lime green. Sizzling. Tropical.

Store #1---nothing.
Store #2---nada.
Store #3---nulla.
Store #4---zero.
Store #5---zilch.

So we headed glumly to store #6. Which neccessitated crossing to the other side of the highway. The usual route was blocked by construction. Plan B was implemented. Drive to the light. Execute a U-turn. Wait patiently at the red. Then slowly, when it is safe to do so, make the u-turn.

"Are you allowed to do that?" enquires Rise, ever in search of knowledge.

"I think it's okay. Though now that you ask, I'm not a hundred percent sure."

We were about to find out. Shall I even bother to continue?

Bright red and blue lights were suddenly flashing in my rear view mirror. Simultaneously, a horrible sinking feeling settled in my gut.

"Rise," I whispered hoarsely. "There's a cop behind us. He's not coming after us, surely?"

He made no motion to pass, only came closer and closer. My gut was quaking now with dread. I pulled over on the shoulder. The last vestige of doubt evaporated as he tucked himself in neatly behind me.

A burly young whippersnapper got out. A well-fed representative of The LAW.

"You're being pulled over for executing an illegal u-turn back there ma'am," the young whippersnapper growled when he reached my window.

I babbled piteously. Something about the construction and the road that I normally use being blocked.

"Yes ma'am. Too many people have been making illegal turns at this intersection. We've had too many accidents. We have to crack down."
On the criminal element, who are causing mayhem in their quest for beauteous garments with which to disport their aged bones on the beach.

There are crack dealers out there.
Breakers and enterers.
Arsonists.
Crazed lunatics holding up terrified bank tellers at gunpoint.
Abductors of innocent children.
Murderers.
Rapists.
Dirty old men exposing their parts to unsuspecting virgins.

But, no. It was the last day of the month. Have to make our quota. Today, men, we're out to make the fastest buck we can. The honour of the Sherrif's Office rests on your shoulders.
Shake Joe and Josephine Ordinary Citizen out of their complacency.
Never mind the fellow speeding through the red light.
Never mind the guy holding up the bank.
See that woman in the green Ford? Making, nay,executing, a u-turn?She's the one we want. The criminal element, with the silvery hair and the shifty eyes.

"Nab her, boys!
What do you think the taxpayers are paying you for?
Huh?
To sit around eating donuts all day?
Hell, no!
We need to stamp out crime!
And we need to start at this intersection!"

"I don't suppose you could let me off with just a warning?" I ventured meekly.

"Sorry ma'am. You broke the law. "
I'm not feeling merciful today.
My groin itches.
Besides, you're not blonde, twenty, or buxom.

If ever I wished to be blonde, twenty, or buxom, this was the hour. This was the day.

"Your license and registration, ma'am?" he said, holding out a meaty paw.

I fumbled in my purse.
I rummaged in the glove compartment.
Thinking mutinous thoughts.

Produced the required documents. Proof that the shifty-eyed, menace-to-society look was just a halloween costume, getting an early airing.

"Wait here, ma'am."

Leaves us stewing in our own sweat while he returns to his vehicle.
To investigate my criminal history.

Fifteen long minutes later [they must have ALL the dirt on me], he swaggers to my window, again. He looks like he played football in high school. He looks like that wasn't very long ago. Like he only has to shave once a week. But he's got the disapproving frown down pat.

"Here's your citation, ma'am. You have thirty days to blah, blah, blah di blah....." He droned on.

I sat meekly.
Rise, mute beside me, exuded sympathy.

The final outrage?

"Have a good day, ma'am!"

"You too," I mumbled, insincerely.
And may a swarm of sticky lovebugs infest your windshield.
And may your groin continue to itch.
And may they be out of French cruellers when next you stop at the donut shop. And.....but never mind.

I was wrong.
I broke the law.
And now I have to pay.
Ochone, Ochone!

We did find a swimsuit, when we crept fearfully to store # 6.
A sober little black number.
A fitting choice.

Gadabouts at Large

"Now Molly," she said on the phone. "Don't be getting carried away with too many plans for gadding about!"

"But Rise, darlin'," said I. "What better excuse for intensified gadding than a visit from one's Little Blister? Wouldn't want you trawling all the way from the Ould Sod to these here sunny climes just to be bored out of your mind!"

"No danger," says Rise. "Boring would be good after the pace around here lately. In fact, boring would be blissful," says she.

For so many years we were sober and responsible. And suppressed our gadding instincts. In order to better raise our children. And not ruffle outlaw feathers. And not cause chins to wag. Or eyebrows to be raised. Or neighbors to be scandalised. Or rumors to be spread.

Now our children are raised. Its over, almost, except for the worrying. Time for the fat lady to sing. For corks to pop. For the fun to begin. Those gadding instincts will be denied no longer. And gadding is much more fun when you have a co-gaddee with whom to gad.

We've already gadded off to Miami in the rain. And met up there with a new recruit. And conducted for her a gadabout seminar. Wherein we imparted to her the finer points of gadding. Towed her along to the beach at Naples for in-field training. She aced her exam.

From there we gadded to the sun drenched gardens of Sarasota. Our gadding shoes are getting a workout. And loving it. They've spent too much time in the closet. They're intoxicated by the airing they're getting. We have to lock them up in the evening so they don't go gadding off into the night without us.

More gadding to come. We'll keep you apprised.

Gone to Miami........

Fishing bombed.
No bites.
To Miami,to laze on the beach
Liz came too.
So did Barry.
Tropical Storm Barry, that is.
We don't like him much.
Lazing on beach foiled.
Howling winds blew us along.
Glimmer of blue crept into the sky.
Big black bully cloud came along.
Flexing his muscles.
Shoving our shy little glimmer aside.
Adding insult to injury, he made it rain.
Not a drizzle.
Not a downpour.
A deluge.
Who will win the soggy t-shirt contest?
"Not I" said Molly.
"Not I" said Rise.
Leaving the little red hen ..... Liz.
She's got the youth and the beauty.
And, of course, the boobies.

Inside at last.
Hot showers.
Dry clothes.
Hot tea.
Cosy couches.
Good books.

All of which is available at home.

It's not supposed to be like this in Miami! In June!

Gone Fishing....

Blue Heaven

The Bean was free one morning last week, so we headed to a local blueberry farm. Slathered with sunscreen, hats jammed on our heads, we moseyed down this dusty lane to the blueberry fields.

Buckets bungee-corded to our waists, the better for two handed picking, we headed into the bushes.

It was a lovely blue and blustery day, and there weren't too many people out, so we almost had the place to ourselves. The brisk breeze kept the heat at bay. Even if there hadn't been blueberries to pick, I would have enjoyed wandering up and down the rows of bushes, wishing the butterflies wouldn't flutter so much, so I'd have a better chance of photographing them. Needless to say, they kept on fluttering and I got no butterfly pictures.

The farmer stopped his tractor to talk to us. Friendly fellow. Told us all about their war with the waxwings this spring; how to identify the different varieties, and the merits and demerits of each. He gave The Bean advice on how to manage his little blueberry patch at home, how to get the best yield etc. When the talk got technical, I wandered off, picking and munching, munching and picking. Their policy is eat all you want, pay for what's in your bucket. The berries in your belly are free. Of course, if you overindulge you'll pay later anyhow!


"I'm so glad I'm tall," the Bean observed at one point.
"Why so?" I asked.
"Because it looks like only short people were here before us. The lower branches are bare, but the higher one are loaded."

One of many reasons to give thanks for tallness.

"Imagine if you were a bear and you came out of the forest into a clearing like this? "
"I guess you'd be one ecstatic bear."

When the random Beanisms turned into
"If I eat one more blueberry I'll be sick," we knew it was time to go home.

When we took our loot to the shady weighing and paying stall we had exactly four and a half pounds. They didn't do a before and after check of what WE weighed! We paid about half what we'd have paid in the grocery store. The hiking and the fun, the birdsong and fresh air were free.



Made two batches of muffins that afternoon. One healthy and not too exciting, the other not as healthy, but luscious and lemony and sweet. A recipe for Mrs. Flaherty's Blueberry Coffee Loaves sounds tempting, AND it makes FOUR loaves. Blueberry vinegar sounds worth a try. Four pages, both sides, of recipes from the farm. And I still have last year's lot. And of course I'll have to make blueberry cobbler, and blueberry crumble. And we can't leave out blueberry peach pie.....Now that Rise is here I think we'll have to make another trip.

Macho, Macho Duck

Got off my rear this evening and went on a bike ride. Scared into it by an e-mail from Rise, titled Imminent Alien Landing, with details of her arrival time tomorrow. That woman is fit. And I am not - as. So I gritted my teeth and pedalled doggedly into the wind. Set no land speed records, but went the whole, hour-long route, mulling things over in my head. All the gobbledygook with which it is usually filled. And then some.

Stopped before home at the little lake nearby. Except that, with our lack of rain this spring, it has shrunk to a mere puddle. The whole area is a bird sanctuary, and there are signs to that effect, lest you get too trigger-happy with your shotgun.

After propping my bike against a tree, I walked along the little wooden pier. The light was fading, but I could make out the dark shape of a largish duck against the light of the water. He was busy, ducking his head under, for food, I presumed. As I watched I thought "That fish, or whatever, is putting up quite a fight."

Mr. Duck, a muscovy [homely looking critter], was doing some heavy-duty wiggling. But then he apparently gave up the fight. Lo, and behold! A female duck materialised from under him! He strutted [yeah! I'm the man!] from the water, and she waddled after him, both of them spreading their wings and shaking out their feathers, folding their wings back in place, then stretching upwards and giving the tailfeathers a vigorous waggling. Aha. Not dinner time after all. Eine kleine Nachtmusik. Just a little early.

They seemed very satisfied with themselves, and unconcerned that a pair of mallards nearby might have been traumatised for life.

An egret was darting around the water's edge. Usually when I see egrets they are playing statue. With their necks folded into exaggerated esses,they stalk their prey stealthily and almost motionlessly in preparation for the lightening strike at some hapless fish, minding his own business under the water. But this little fellow was hungry, darting to left and right in the muddy shallows. He looked kind of ungainly and as if he might have been glad of a good pair of wellies.

Suddenly the peace was shattered by the loud honking, nearby, of a sandhill crane. Such elegant fowl! Such obnoxious noise! Like those noisemakers people like to take to sports events. The ones that whirl around and make a clacking sound. And make you want to choke the owner.

There appeared to be some kind of domestic dispute going on between two cranes. They mate for life you know. Not to be confused with living happily ever after. I felt for them. Why can't we all just be nice to each other and quit honking?

Got back on the bike in the gathering gloom. Wobbled, lost my balance and fell off, hitting the grass, with a bone jarring thump. Lay where I'd fallen, wallowing in the humiliation, gingerly feeling my bones, and wishing I were a duck. Not a sex-crazed muscovey, but a nice, civilised little mallard. A less than auspicious ending to a so-so day.

Things will definitely look up tomorrow, as my beloved sister is arriving, and having her here will make all my owwees better.

Married Woman with Five Children Eats Birthday Dinner Alone in the Company of Her Cat

I was appalled when I read this in the newspaper yesterday. Imagine! Apparently her birthday got off to a shaky start when no cup of tea was brought to her in bed. Gosh, even I know that is a key component of a proper birthday! The unidentified woman sighed, got up, made coffee and served a toasted bagel to the last child living at home. It was not toasted to his satisfaction and he minced no words in expressing his displeasure.

Well, Excuuuse me! If I'd been in her shoes I'd have given that wretched mollyspawn, oops, I mean upstart, a piece of my mind. I'd have shown him how that amazing gadget, a toaster, works, and told him to feel free to toast his own &*%#*$!ing bagel. But enough about what I would have done. The woman in our news item just held her tongue, but was later heard, by one of our on-the-spot reporters, muttering darkly about boiled eggs for dinner. ??? Let the PhDs in Ireland figure out that cryptic comment....

The bagel eater having left for work, our heroine proceeded to putter. And watch the phone. And will it to ring. But that pesky instrument was silent.

Deciding against the option of sitting home, pouting, the newly minted 59 year old rounded up a few quilty friends by phone, inviting them to bring a bag lunch and join her at the local public gardens. Where they sat and chatted under shady oaks and munched their lunch, surrounded by lovely growing things, with the little waterfall gurgling in the background. She did not advise them of the day that was in it, as that would have resulted in too much twittering, which was not the purpose of the exercise. The purpose of the exercise, she confided later to our O.T.S.R., was to spend time in the company of people who, erroneously perhaps, [though she basks in it anyway], think that she is wonderful. One is allowed, she opined, to be selfish on one's birthday, especially when the earth doesn't stop, as it should, and tip its hat to one.

Ruffled feathers somewhat smoothed, she wended her way homeward. And stopped in to see the elderly relatives, who at least have advanced age as an excuse for their faulty memories.

But! What's this? There were flowers on her doorstep and messages on her phone when she got home! And a big smile on her face when our reporters caught up with her for an up-date. She did not, she told them, waddle around like a goose who'd swallowed a basketball for forty five months of her life, develop stretch marks and varicose veins, and huff and puff through five labours, to be tossed aside like yesterday's junk mail at the end of it all. So, even though she did eat dinner with only the cat for company, she had a very nice day, thank you very much. When the bagel eater returned, [and it is well known he has the demeanor of a wounded bear when first he wakes],he swore to defend her against all comers.

She even spoke to him-who-swore-he-couldn't-live-without-her-but-now-seems-to-be-managing-that-feat-just-fine before turning in for the night.

This concludes the birthday rant for this year. The editors would like to thank all the reporters who threw their two cents in. There will be no further discussion of this subject on these pages until this time next year, when we will be revisiting the woman and her cat to see how they are coping with the big Six O. Do you think you can stand the suspense? Our reporters live only to bring you human interest stories such as this one . After all, it could even happen to you!

Uncle Willie

My Uncle Willie died yesterday. Just like that. Nobody even told me he was sick. But then his family has always been stingy with information. Turns out he had cancer. He died peacefully with my Aunt and all his family around him. I just wish I could go to his funeral. That's what families are for. Among other things. To make a good showing at the turning points in our lives. Like baptisms and weddings and funerals. Long ago, when I was young and flippant, and had no care for the future, I made a decision that ensured I would very rarely be able to show up.

When my dad was dying we lived in California. Heaven and earth had to be moved by the OC and my F-I-L to get a passport for baby Liz and get us half way around the world,asap.

When Rise,my only sister, got married, I couldn't go. Three small children and a skinny bank account.

When my mother was dying of cancer Rise was the one trekking daily to hospice, while I wrung my hands ineffectually in Montana. I did, however, make it home for her funeral.

When my cousin, Willie's oldest, got married a few years ago, I was at first determined to go, since there was no longer the excuse of small children. But somehow I was overruled.

And now Uncle Willie has gone to join his brother, our Uncle Denis, in the great cattle market in the sky. I'm not sure my mother would be hanging out at the celestial cattle mart, but she'll probably be waiting at the pearly gates, along with our tall Granddad, Garrett O'Rourke, him of the benign smile and the snow-white moustache [known to me mainly through photographs, as he died when I was only four]. With Granny on his arm, in one of her flowered dresses, with her silver hair tied back in a bun. There'll be singing and dancing and jigs and reels in heaven after the funeral on Monday.

Auntie Bid [I couldn't say her name correctly and my version stuck] is the only one of my mother's siblings left. She was the youngest, and as mad as a March hare, and lots of fun. But now she's in a nursing home because they couldn't get her to take her medicine. The cousins come and take her out frequently. If I hadn't dipped out I could be doing my share there too. As it is, she probably wouldn't know me. So sad, growing old and having all your friends and peers drifting off, one by one, leaving you alone.

As a small child I remember spending time at Granny's. Uncle Denis was the heir to my grandfather's farm, being the oldest son. But Uncle Willie had a cunning plan. He was courting Shelia L, over the hill. Shelia was an only child, on a big farm adjacent to the O'Rourkes. I remember teasing him as he got ready to go. "Willie's going courting!" Polishing his boots and putting Brylcream in his hair. And, while he polished, singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas". Throughout my life, whenever I've heard that song I think of Uncle Willie.

By and by, the lovely Shelia succumbed to his charms. Theirs was the first wedding I ever attended. I was ten. And sat beside a grown up cousin whom I adored. Who explained to me how to eat the grapefruit with the little cherry on top. There was singing and dancing later, and a little too much to drink for the grown-ups. As young as I was, I remember feeling bad for my mother when my dad very publicly flirted with another cousin, sister to the one I'd sat with. It was such a mystery to me, all this grown up intrigue.

The following year we were out to visit in the country again, and the young couple had their first baby. Who I remember tightly grasping my little finger, in the way that tiny babies do.

A few years later this tiny baby, was running around in the farmyard, cursing a blue streak, a talent she'd learned from her dad,to the grevious mortification of her ladylike mother. It was she who called with the sad news. She gave up cursing a long time ago and turned out to be more like her mother, our aunt.

Now that lovely, ladylike aunt has lost her life's partner. I spoke to her today and she sounded characteristically philosophical. Glad that he'd died peacefully, with herself and their eight children around him. That's the way to go. Not the lonesome way so many people die these days, far from family and friends and a place they love.

"Slawn leath" Uncle Willie. May you be in heaven half an hour before the divil knows you're dead. And may you rest in peace.

Book and Movie--A Perfect Marriage

I rented a movie recently and scored. My track record is spotty, at best. I often wonder why I bother. But this time I was enthralled. And watched it again the next night. And hared off to the library the next day for the book.

Turns out I had this book on my TBR list all the time. My list is a messy affair, scribbled in a notebook haphazardly. After reading a review, I had scratched in there "Notes From A Scandal" by Zoe Heller. [It was short listed for the Booker Prize in 2003]. And promptly forgot all about it.

Until Cate Blanchett's face turned up on a movie with a vaguely familiar name. Cate B and Judi Dench were inspired choices for the leading roles. And Bill Nighey is hysterical as the cuckolded husband. Usually I like to read a book first. Then, when I get around to seeing the movie, I'm a bit let down. Because I have formed my own picture and the movie doesn't measure up.

Except for this one. I don't think I could have imagined the characters more perfectly than Blanchett and Dame J portray them. The story is about an affair between a teacher and one of her pupils. But the real story, the underlying, unstated story, is about lonliness, and the lengths people will go to to deal with it. Sometimes its not the story that lures you in so much as how it's told. Zoe Heller is masterful.
Which came across in the movie.
Which lured me to the book.
Which did not dissapoint.
She is sly, tart and wickedly funny. I highly recommend both book and movie. But which to tackle first? I'm afraid you're on your own there. I'd almost say I enjoyed the book more, having Cate Blanchett's and Judi Dench's portrayals in mind. But a movie can only portray so much. At the end of the day the written word rules. Here is a case where movie and book compliment each other perfectly.

Pavarotti I Am Notti....More May Memories

May at our school was a time for processions. Mainly in honour of Our Lady, since our nuns were an Italian order whose patroness was Mary, Help of Christians. Processions were a welcome diversion from class work. Hymns had to be practised, processing had to be choreographed. Reading, writing and 'rithmetic took a back seat for a while. One memorable May, Mother Superior came to visit, all the way from Turin. The nuns were beside themselves with excitement. We practiced all the usual hymns and, since Mother Superior's visit was such a special occasion, we also learned one hymn in Italian. I loved that Italian hymn,even though we didn't have a clue what the words meant.

The big day arrived and we lined the driveway up to the convent and waved little Italian flags and sang our hearts out.

Years later, when we lived in Belgium, we became friendly with an Italian couple. Invited to dinner one evening at their home, I was in the kitchen with Gabriella while the men talked shop. I decided to wow her with my rendition of the Italian hymn from my schooldays, sotto voce of course, so's not to alarm the gentlemen. As I rolled my tongue robustly around those lovely Italian sounds, my friend looked at me with a total absence of comprehension. Turned out, to my everlasting mortification, that I was singing , not in Italian, but in Gibberish!

Now I only sing it in the shower. Gibberish notwithstanding.

Bless Me Father, for I Have Sinned...

I won't bore you with how dazed I am that it's May already. Enough to say that May is one of my favourite months. For many reasons. Not least of which is that I was born in this merry month, just nine months after my parents' wedding! Of course I don't exactly remember being born. Too bad we're so totally oblivious when the most momentous things are happening to us.

The first May memory that comes to my mind is of changing from our navy, winter school uniform to a summer one of sky blue, with a white collar and pretty buttons. Such "incredible lightness of being" that summer uniform induced in me! It symbolised the unfolding of life. Gaunt, grey winter was behind us. New leaves were unfurling on the trees. Fresh green things were poking shyly but determinedly, up from the ground. Daffodils, narcissus, crocus, tulips.... The very air trembled with possibility.

I made my First Communion in May of 1954. A memory etched in my brain is of walking to church that day with my parents. My little brother is not in this memory. Maybe a neighbour was taking care of him. And even though my mother was only five weeks from giving birth to my sister, I don't remember her as pregnant that day. Not that the word "pregnant" was even in my six year old vocabulary. Maybe the memory is so clear because, for once, I had my parents' undivided attention.

I was wearing my white communion dress, which my mother had made. In photos I see a scrubbed and shining freckled face, topped by mother-primped, wavy hair. My expression betrays my embarrassment at being all dolled up, like a dog's dinner. Because, did I mention? The dress was only the half of it. I was also wearing a veil! And white, gauzy gloves, and shiny white shoes that didn't have brown laces in them. And I was clutching a bunch of lily of the valley. The parents were dolled up too, in their Sunday best, and the birds were singing. I don't remember if it had just rained, but the memory has a just-washed, sunshiny feel to it.

The rest of the day is lost in the mists. More than the ritual of First Communion, I remember the preparations of the preceding week, and the twittering of the nuns as they coached us for our First Confession. Because, without the cleansing effects of confession, those nuns were not letting us and our dingy, smudgy, six-year old souls anywhere near the altar. We practiced until those little souls were weary.

Sister[acting in loco priestus-don't bother to check my Latin, I made it up]:
"In nomine patris, et fili, et spiritus sanctus. Bless you my child."

Us[each in our turn]:"Bless me Father, for I have sinned, this is my first confession,gulp."

The holy nuns [and I use the term loosely], had drilled the Ten Commandments into us. Before going into the confession box, to whisper in the dark to the priest about our dreadful shortcomings, we were supposed to examine our consciences. This ritual to be repeated every week for the rest of our days. Nit picking, I'd call it today, since at that tender age

-we weren't much given to swearing;

-we knew nothing about false gods;

-our mothers saw to it that we kept holy the Sabbath day;

-and also took care of 'honour thy father and thy mother'.

Because, whatever about my dad, my mother stood for no nonsense. If you didn't "honour" her [as in - do what you were told], you'd feel the sting of the wooden spoon across the backs of your legs as you fled.

There was little or no chance of any of us committing murder, much as we might like to dispatch a pesky sibling here or there.

As for adultery, all we knew was it had something to do with adults. Logically enough.

Stealing was one evil we experienced first hand.
Stealee:"Sister, she stole my pencil!"
Stealer:"No I didn't, Sister. She's lying!"

Which brought us to fibbing, one sin we were intimately acquainted with.

The ninth commandment,in the list Noah,oops! I mean, Moses, allegedly brought down from the mountain, was up there with adultery. Not only were we not concerned, on the playground at recess, with coveting our neighbour's wife. We didn't even think we'd be concerned with it as adults, since most of us didn't expect to ever have wives.

Number ten was less mysterious. Coveting our neighbours' goods was as natural to us as breathing.

But...given the menu of possibilities, it's no wonder we turned to nit-picking, as our first confession turned into our second, our second into our third and so on, for the rest of our lives [the nuns assured us.] Every Saturday you'd hope it would slip your mother's mind. But every Saturday she'd remember, and send you off to the church on your bicycle, to do the weekly spiritual laundry. Lest you lose the run of yourself. No groaning or malingering allowed.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned.It's been a week since my last confession. I rolled my eyes when my mother said I had to go to bed so early [I made sure she didn't see me...]
And Father, I couldn't help myself, I pinched my little brother. And lied when my mother asked me what I'd done to him. Because Father, she sqeezes oranges to make juice for him, and it smells so lovely, but she never gives me any. And my dad said I had to put threepence in my piggybank, and I could spend the other threepence. But Father, you can't get anything for threepence, so I spent the whole sixpence on sweets. And when my dad asked me if I'd put half my pocket money in my piggybank, I told him I did. For these sins I am heartily sorry Father."

It was all very well if you got one of the nicer priests. But you never knew who was lurking behind the door to the confessional,until your nose was five inches from his ear, and it was too late to run. So you waited, quaking, on your knees in the dark, for the little window to slide open, signalling your turn to spill the beans. Some of the priests were gruff old codgers. Scary enough to make a small girl wet her knickers. And wonder, in her shame, if that was also a sin?

If you happened to have your wits about you, and a keen sense of hearing, you could entertain yourself, as you waited in the darkened cubicle, by straining to hear the muffled exchange between the priest and the penitent at the other side of the box. That was a two-edged sword though. You wouldn't want anyone eavesdropping as you confessed your sins, and then noising the news abroad......

Some of the older priests were hard of hearing, and would sometimes ask you to repeat what you'd said. Or, even worse, to "speak up my child." With a little luck you'd get off with a couple of "Hail Marys" for your penance, and stumble out, with eyes downcast and cheeks burning, hoping that no one had overheard, or if they had, that there would be no snickering as you fumbled your way into a pew and joined your hands piusly. And rattled off the Act of Contrition and your penance, with unseemly haste, so you could make your escape and go out into the sunlight to sin again.

It's been many May moons since I was last inside a confessional. For which I may possibly burn in hell, unless the nuns themselves were fibbing. But I haven't thrown the baby out with the bathwater. I believe in God. I still pray. I'd never have survived five teenagers without an unshakeable faith in the Man Above. And His Holy Mother. And all the angels and saints. I'm probably as familiar to them as a bad ha'penny.

"Oh," says St. Peter to Jesus, "it's just your woman in Florida. She's on her knees again, wondering if we could possibly help her out with her latest crisis. She's very persistent Sir. What shall I tell her this time?"

And they always come through for me.

I'm surprised every year at how quickly the year rushes to May. And it reaffirms my faith in the universe when I see new leaves unfurling on the trees, and fresh green things poking up from the ground, and I know that God's in His heaven and all's right with the world. For now.

Green Thumbs and Passion Vines

The Bean, my budding botanist, is working for the summer, landscaping. Back in fourth grade, Mrs. Balace, the teacher he remembers most fondly of all the teachers he had growing up, turned him on to the wonder of growing things. Each child in her class started the year out with a terrarium, some dirt, a handful of seeds and a walking stick bug. Their mission was to sow the seeds and keep the subsequent plants alive, along with responsibility for the well being of Mr. W. S. Bug , who made his home, and cleverly camouflaged himself among those plants. The Bean has had two green thumbs ever since. For a while, in H.S. he was making salsa from hot peppers he grew, and selling it to the teachers. It was too hot for my taste---the kind that makes smoke come out your ears, but he had some dedicated clients!

Since the OC went north, the cat's been playing, so to speak. In addition to cutting the grass, keeping the bushes trimmed, and mollycoddling the OC's babies, the bamboo and the fig trees, the Bean has managed to add a couple of banana plants, a coffee plant, two kinds of guava, peach and grapefruit trees, two friends for the existing pomegranate tree, and a fence upon which he is training blackberries and raspberries. There's a collection of pots by the garage with an ever changing and growing parade of seedlings and cuttings, and plants rescued from jobs where they were being pulled out and discarded. A sampling--elephant ears, mother of millions, papyrus..........Can you tell that girls his age are thin on the ground around here??

This landscaping work involves frequent trips to nurseries, and he never comes home empty handed. Yesterday he came home with this passion flower vine. With which I immediately fell in love, and which made me remember these lines:

"Count no men poor who have the stars above,
The peace and quietude of evening hours,
And in their hearts that rarest gift of love,
And in their garden---flowers."

To which I say a heartfelt "Amen."

Fruity Cheerios vs. Oatmeal

One of the biggest criticisms I've heard levelled at blogging is "who the hell cares what you had for breakfast?" Didn't think I'd ever stoop so low, but, guess what this is going to be about? Exactly! What I had for breakfast! Even if it means they'll take away my thinking blogger thingy.....

I wouldn't call myself a health food nut. Growing up I was fed healthy food. Never gave it a second thought. My mother, who was a nurse, put it in front of me and I ate it. Fast food was still in the future. Most food was fresh and minimally processed. Bread was often whole wheat. At my grandmother's house, out the country, white, store-bought bread was a rare 'treat'.

Candy was discouraged [which is not to say that we didn't head straight to the local sweet shop the minute we got a few pennies....] My mother tried to satisfy our craving for sweets by serving dessert. Sometimes it was stewed apples with custard [Bird's Jelly Deluxe!] Sometimes it was rice pudding. Sometimes it was sago [yuk, yuk!]. On special occasions it was apple tart[yum!] or queen cakes [double yum!] or, on state occasions, trifle [drool, drool, triple yum!] Always healthy, wholesome tucker. We didn't eat only dessert, but that's what comes first to my sugar-crazed mind. [Shepherd's pie was my favourite of the non-dessert items served at home.]

But when my children came along, it dawned on me that the care and feeding of these little people was my responsibility. Obviously nobody had checked my credentials before assigning me this task. I hung on with the breastfeeding as long as I reasonably could...... Then I haunted the library for books that would steer me in the healthiest direction. Which did not include jars with a happy cherub on the front. So I learned to mash and strain and puree. And, even though it didn't always look that appetizing, it worked. Nobody died. Nobody wasted away from malnutrition. Nobody had to be hospitalized and fed intravenously. Phew!

Liz had some strange favourites for a toddler. When I cut a lemon and used only part of it, she'd ask for the rest and happily suck on it!!! She also liked to pop whole kumquats in her mouth and chew as happily as if they were candy....And when I made coleslaw she had to have the cabbage core. Everything went well until my boys hit their teens and decided to become vegetarians. Which was, quite frankly, a pain in the neck. Stress was high enough trying to keep people fed who had two hollow legs apiece, now I had to accomplish that without any help from meat? Not fair. And then their little sister, who thought they were gods, joined their ranks, but she was still very young and growing....agghh....and stubborn....more stress, as I tried to make sure she was adequately nourished! Thankfully the OC and the Bean are still happy meat-and-potatoes-and-anything-else-I'll-put-in-front-of-them kind of guys.

So where was I going with this? Ahh, yes....breakfast. My mother fed us porridge for breakfast, big heaping bowls of grey stuff. My dad set it up in the evening in the double boiler. We sprinkled it with sugar, poured on the milk and choked it down. And then had a few hunks of buttered brown bread with marmalade for good measure. At least it stuck to our ribs and saw us through 'til lunchtime. But oh! How we longed for summer when she would relent for a couple of months, and let us eat corn flakes or rice krispies instead!

But, just like the sensible shoes that I so heartily resented, I find myself doing many things mum's way, now, at the rapid approach of dotage. Like breakfast. I usually have a bowl of oatmeal, made palatable by the addition of chopped up fruit. Except for lately. Due to the recent visit of small grandsons, I see a most unaccustomed sight when I go to the cupboard for my morning cereal. To wit, a large red and yellow box of Fruity Cheerios. Tiny crispy donuts in every colour of the rainbow. With no sign of an imminent return visit from the boys, and being a thrifty person, there's only one thing for it. I'm working my way through the box. But next time they visit I will implore their mother to buy a smaller box. Because..... are you listening up there Mum?.....I miss my oatmeal!

Where Did I Put My Thinking Cap?

Meggie recently nominated me as a thinking blogger. Which made my day. Even if certain lurkers are rolling their eyes and muttering "If they only knew her!" Writing is something I love to do. When I was very little, I remember covering a piece of paper with scribbles and presenting it to the parents for approval. Not being Hollywood caliber actors, all they could manage were weak smiles and puzzled looks. Bummer. Took me a few more years to unlock the riddle of the written word.

I even loved the physical act of writing. Loved dipping the nib into the inkpot and scratching along the page, doing writing exercises in Senior Infants! As an adult, when we lived in Montana, I took calligraphy classes from Denys Taipale, an awesome scribe. The things I loved as a child are the things, I have found, that I've come back to as an adult.

As a quiet, not-quite-the-life-of-the-party teenager I set out to write a Great Novel. But ran into all kinds of roadblocks which could be summarised by the realisation that I needed to live more, experience more, before anything fictional I wrote rang true.

I heartily resented that, of all the English teachers I could have had, I got stuck with Sarge. A diminutive, hatchet-faced nun from England, who regarded us as a bunch of hooligans. She assigned an essay every weekend. While others groaned, I was off and running. Just give me a topic. And when I'd hand it in she'd give me an A, and a pinched smile. Gradually it dawned on me, I could have been writing in SansKrit and I'd still have gotten an A. Or Swahili. Or in the style I'd handed to the puzzled parents so long ago. As long as it had the required number of pages. All Sarge cared about was quantity. Content or quality was irrelevant. Which left me with a sour taste in my mouth. I wasn't much interested in getting an A I didn't deserve.

So off to Dub-a-lin in the green, in the green, to college, and the weekly letters home. In which I spun the trivia of my boring existence into comedy for the entertainment of the folks.

Went to NY, one summer, to work, and met the YC [younger edition of the OC]. When I returned home, more letters to write.....and so it went. Three years here, four years there, make friends, move on, write letters....And all of the friends said "Write, Molly, write!" And I did. And stashed the scribblings under the bed and in the closet,and in the night table drawer.....

When things got turbulent, which they did, and I wanted my mum or dad, who were thousands of miles away, I turned to the best way of dealing with and figuring life out that I knew---pen and paper. And sometimes what I wrote was so vehement, I gouged right through the page. And often the writing was rendered illegible by the angry tears that splashed on it as I wrote. And I often railed at God for permitting me to make the most momentous decisions of my life when I was so young and the clue bag was so empty. How blithely I kissed them goodbye and disappeared over the ocean and the horizon! Never giving a thought to the future, when we'd have children, and that pesky ocean would still be there, between them and their Irish grandparents.

But I scribbled on and we muddled through. And moved . And moved again. And moved some more. And just when you'd think you just didn't have it in you to do it again, you did it again. The only difference between us and the Tinkers is that we wash. And write.

I always viewed computers with suspicion. One memory etched in my mind is of Liz, working into the night to finish a report on The Scarlet Letter. I had read drafts along the way and thought what a clever, insightful girl she was. Finally, the night before it was due, she went to print out the final draft. And the computer made a gulping sound and swallowed it whole. She was distraught. And my distrust of these new-fangled machines was confirmed.

Until, many years later, the same Liz started a blog. And I was captivated, and charmed. Because it made me feel connected to what she was thinking in a way that nothing else did. Not phone calls, not letters. So I had to shelve my reservations and start one of my own.

And found wonderful people I'd never have connected with in a million years by any other means. And now one of them has made reparation for Sarge.......Thank you Meg!

I have no idea how to put the TB logo on here. But I do know how to pass the compliment on. There are some I could name, but hesitate as it might smack of nepotism! This Thinking Blogger thing has been going around for a while, and many of the bloggers I read regularly have previously been nominated. So I would like to nominate Isabelle, Tanya and MJD. They always give me food for thought and another way of looking at things that I might not have come to all by myself...... And I wish them luck with the logo!

HRH the Queen

.......Interim quilt for little grandson........





........Appliqued cat and flowers in the bushes.....




....Mystery quilt. Started in Belgium; quilted in Minnesota; mysteriously neglected for several years; finally bound and finished in Florida.




....Scrappy star quilt. Bonus Beantoes at no extra charge....


HRH the queen invites all her loyal subjects to a rare event--a display of Finished Projects. Lest ye look upon her, based on her last post, as a lazy, good-for-nothing layabout who never finishes anything. An FP being one of the rarest sightings in the realm, she trusts that you will be suitably awestruck. After you have viewed the display, and oohed and aahed appropriately, you may come to the throne room to kiss the royal hand.

In related news, a carrier pigeon has just arrived from Tir na nOg to inform that the Lady Rise [Of Riseoutofme fame] will soon be arriving for an extended visit. And she will be bringing her whip. Sewing machines will buzz,scissors will snip, needles will fly. Watch for many more projects to reach completion. Oh dear....I think I feel a fainting spell coming on.....


Postscript to loyal subjects: Don't look for too many pictures in future posts here. As pretty as they are, the stress of uploadage [my own word--like it?] is too much. I have aged a decade since I started this post and wept hot tears of rage and frustration. Each picture took f.o.r.e.v.e.r. to get on here, and I could not get the pictures where I wanted them[obviously not at the beginning of the post].Also, I do have more than four FPs but uploadage being so molasses-like, I didn't think I'd live long enough to upload more than that. Oh well... I have once again worked my magic [or would that be 'evil spell'?]on our computer. The ladies at the library are thinking of providing me with my own bed over there. The computer master [OC] is off in northern climes. And would prefer anyway that the wench, I mean queen, was on her knees scrubbing the royal water closets and floors than writing nonsense for the edification of imaginary loyal subjects. And so,henceforth, it's back to the stress-free written word. I'm going to go lie down now.....happy viewing---IF I can get the bloody thing to publish.

Unfinished Project Queen

Tanya posted on this a while back and tossed it out for whoever wanted to take it up. My spirit was willing but my abyssmal photo uploading nonskills seriously slowed me down....

First off, you should know that I'm the undisputed queen of unfinished projects. Want to take away my crown? OK. How far back do your unfinished projects go? Thought so. Not as far back as mine! Since mine date back into the mists of history, before some of you were born. Case in point: A crewel embroidery pillow kit. It shows a scene depicting a seagull [Jonathan Livingston] flying over a stream. Remaining to be done? Some leaves and the bark on some trees. Number of years I've been procrastinating? Thirty plus. Aghast, are you? How do you think I feel? I started it when Liz was in diapers. Cloth diapers. 'Nuff said. I'll post a picture when it's on the couch!

Fast forward to 2004 when I started the Star of Bethlehem quilt for my little grandson, D, who will be three this summer. Who still does not, to my shame, have a grandma-made quilt of his own. The problem is I bit off more than I could speedily chew. In that I decided to do a lot of hand quilting. Big mistake. Hand quilting is not my forte. My forte is in the starting blocks. There with the adrenaline of a new project. With the choosing of the colours. With the thrill of the first cut. With the thing taking shape before your eyes as each block is finished. With the design decisions about borders and binding. The eyes of the non-quilters are glazing over by now, as they think "this woman needs a life!"

In the meantime I made him an interim quilt, entirely by machine, with no hand work save for the basting and binding, and which will be in the mail this week. The star will get finished. I'm hoping by his birthday, in July.

In between the Jonathan pillow and the star quilt there's a deep pile of other projects, sighing in the closet, patiently waiting for their turn to get finished and brought out into the sunlight.

It frustrates me, this inability to stick with something until it's finished and then, and only then, begin something new. It is a serious character flaw. Am I afraid ,that, like an only child, one project would be lonely? That it needs siblings? So they can mutter darkly together in the closet about the neglect they are suffering?Come to think of it, if I had raised each child completely before giving birth to the next, I might have made a better fist of it......do I thrive on chaos? I yearn for a tidy life, but even now, on the eve of my dotage, it's not happening.

Neither of my daughters has shown an interest in quilting. Liz knits and crochets and is generally handy with a sewing machine. California Girl is too busy with horses and dogs and keeping body and soul together to bother with the domestic arts.......so who will finish my mound of half made quilts before I die? Who will layer and baste and quilt them? Who will label and bind them?

"Not I," said the Pig.

"Not I," said the Cat.

"Not I," said the Duck.

So, like the Little Red Hen, I'd better get cracking and do them all by myself! Two more birthdays and I'll be face to face with the big six o. And then the slide down the slippery slope will start to pick up speed. And time will be running ever faster through the hourglass. The time to start is now.....the way to start is to quit jabbering about it, pick up a needle and sew!


If you're a quilter and made it this far without falling asleep, maybe I could get some input on how to bind the star quilt, when it finally gets that far. I'm thinking black, but welcome suggestions.....

Zoom, Wobble, Zoom

I married one maniac and gave birth to another.

After storms to the south of us, storms to the north of us, a tornado warning right over us and howling winds all around us, the sun finally peeked out around noon on Saturday.

Almost simultaneously the OC emerged from the computer room where we thought he had sequestered himself for his annual eleventh-hour assault on the tax forms, and brightly suggested a bike ride.

In spite of the lunacy of the idea, the Bean and I understand that he is unaccustomed to sunshine in the frozen north. And to opportunities this time of year to ride a bike. Forced Family Fun is a hallowed tradition in our family. The OC has always loved the idea of commandeering all his ducklings, and their mother, to ride bikes along behind him, or trot around the track with him on weekends, at the various places we've lived. Traditionally he has ignored groans of protest, assuring the ducklings that, in years to come, they'd look back on these times and this torture with fondness and gratitude. Mother Duck herself wasn't exactly wild with enthusiasm to subject her feathers to the buffetting being visited upon the trees out back....But, recent posts notwithstanding, I'm still loathe to be called a sissy. We decided to humour him....

Bikes were hauled out. Tire pressure was, with only a few "expletive deleteds", checked and adjusted. Water bottles were procured. Sunscreen was applied. Sunglasses, hats and biking gloves donned---we take our biking seriously around here! Then "into the valley of death rode the six hundred." Or, at least, into the teeth of the gale rode a party of three....

The sun was bright and the wind was gusting. The trees all around were dipping and dancing as I struggled to keep my seat. They soon left me in the dust. Zooming along like arrows from a powerful bow. But this doesn't bother me. I'm happy wobbling along at mom speed, and happy that they, for now, are happy too.

Our route provides many opportunities for extra mileage. I took advantage of none of them. For the day and the weather that was in it, it was enough that I was out! The menfolk took advantage of all of them--loops, cul-de-sacs, doing some of the side trips twice.... Which meant they zoomed by me again and again. The OC would whiz by and breezily intone "use your gears," as I zig-zagged, donkey style, up a hill. A red-blue-grey blur of Bean would zoom past, intent on either getting ahead of his father or on maintaining his lead. It always has to be competitive, which makes me y.a.w.n. I felt like an old B52 bomber plodding through the skies, while F16s broke the sound barrier all around me. Showing me up with all their tricks. Executing loop-de-loops, turning upside down, spinning, spiralling, diving, defying gravity, while the gusting winds concentrated all their efforts on trying to knock me off the bloody bike.

After back-tracking three times to retrieve my hat, which the cheeky wind repeatedly snatched off my head, I gave up, and wedged it between handlebars and brakes.

An hour after lift-off we were home. It felt so good to stop. So virtuous to have gone at all. Wind-blown, snarly hair, aged bones, creaking pleasantly, and a raging thirst for a cup of tea! The OC was well pleased with himself. Taxes done? Check. Golf with the cronies? Check. Two months of magazines and mail read? Check. Visits to the Ancient Ones? Check. Time spent with mother duck and last remaining duckling? Check. Appointment with a psychiatrist? Who? Me? Checkcheckcheck.


Postscript: I know that people everywhere are saddened by the horrible events at Virginia Tech. Me too. Seems silly to be writing such trivia as the above....but maybe we need distraction, some nonsense to smile about, when all we can think about is what kind of world we're leaving for our children.....

.

Seriously??

A wind from the north blew the OC home for the weekend. I set off in good time this morning to fetch him from the airport, making sure I had plenty of gas and money for tolls. Turned on to the parkway and realised, too late, that even though I had money, I didn't have a quarter for the entry booth. Frantic scrambling in my purse for change turned up only a nickel.

"Better than nothing," I thought, tossing it in.

There was a loud, angry "brrrr!" from the machine. I shrugged and drove on. It's been known to gyp me in the past, so I didn't beat myself up with guilt over it.

When I got to the next toll booth however, as the attendant was handing me my change, I remarked that she might want to keep one of the quarters as I hadn't had one when I got on.

"Oh no," she said. "I can't do that."
She handed me a card and said
"You'll have to write a check and send it to this address."

I looked at her incredulously, searching her eyes for the twinkle that would tell me she was pulling my leg. I didn't find it. She was totally serious.

"So," I said. "You want me to write a check for twenty five cents and spend thirty nine cents on postage to mail it, instead of just giving it to you?"

"That is correct," she primly replied.

"Well, thanks a lot," I said, and drove bemusedly away.

Between you, me and the wall, it ain't gonna happen!

The Bird is on the Wing.....

.......... but because blogger is anally chronological and I am Html-elly inept, you have to scroll back to April 3 rd to hear her sing!

The Caged Bird Will Sing Later...

I was in the mood to blog last night. Not quite ready to loosen my grip on the Real Women theme, I rambled on and wrote a long, meandering post. Went back and tweaked the wording here, the grammar there. Hit the publish button and off she went, flying like a bird, out into the blogosphere, in search of readers.

Went to bed happy. "To sleep, perchance to dream." And dream I did! That the Mag, headmistress from my schooldays,[more respectfully known as Sr. Margaret], was looking over my shoulder at what I'd written, shaking her head sorrowfully, and saying to me in her quiet, whispery voice "Not the most suitable subject for Good Friday, eh, Molly dear?" It was a talent she had. An ability to induce shame and guilt in the most innocent child....

"Oh crap! She's right!"

Suddenly I was wide awake and fumbling for my glasses. Stumbling to the computer to clip my birdie's wings. A sigh of relief--- no comments yet---one never knows what hour of the day or night our friends down under are up and stirring....no-one need ever know what a Philistine I was...Opened the window and in she flew. I grabbed her out of the air and stuffed her back in the draft box so fast, and in such a flurry of feathers, she never knew what hit her. I'll keep her there 'til next week when she'll get anoither chance to fly.



Meanwhile, the house is full of the aroma of apple cake for The Bean's [youngest son's] birthday tomorrow. Landmark occasion, he's turning twenty. No more teenagers. Happy Birthday to my "baby", all six foot four of him, and Happy Easter everyone!

Embracing The Inner Sissy

Looking back, I don't think my parents gave us the impression that boys were better than girls. But I got it from somewhere, and it took a long time to shake it off.

Maybe because I wasn't small and dainty, I decided, in self defense, that whose who were, were inferior. I played with dolls and teddy bears, sure. But I was also a fearless tree climber. Kitty W, our neighbour, used to holler out her window at me, as I roosted with my book in the tree at the end of our garden ---

"You be careful Molly Bawn! One of these days you're going to fall out of that tree and break your arse!"
I never did.

I was also a nimble dancer-over-rocks at the seaside; avid explorer of tide pools; tireless collector of seashells; builder of sand castles and enthusiastic sand dune runner. At home I threw my rubber ball endlessly against the wall outside our kitchen, sing-songing the rhyming litany of tricks to do on each throw, before the ball came back to my hand, whilst my mother yelled intermittantly about the fate awaiting me when I broke the window. Maybe my tall gangliness seemed more suited to a boy. Maybe I was secretly jealous that my mother made cute smocked dresses for my baby sister, but it never occured to her to make such pretty things for me .....

Maybe I dreaded, worse than death itself, that the boys in the neighbourhood might call me a sissy. Boys had all the power and all the freedom. To be considered a sissy by them meant you were a very low life-form indeed. Or so it seemed to me.

Things did not improve when I started to develop what, years later, my youngest daughter would call "pokes", as opposed to full blown bosoms. Oh, the mortification of it all! And the very last straw was when I had my first visit from "Auntie Jane". Not a child given to tantrums, THAT caused a meltdown of mammoth proportions. I still remember standing on the stairs, shouting at my poor bewildered mother about how unfair it all was. How come boys didn't have to endure such indignities? And what do you mean it's going to come back every month for the rest of my foreseeable life? Just kill me now and be done with it....

Of course, in time, I simmered down and resigned myself to my miserable fate. What choice did I have? What choice did any of us have?

Being female meant you were at the mercy of men. Only the most wanton of hussies would dare to ask a boy out. So one waited and hoped. I despised those of my peers who gussied themselves up of a Saturday afternoon, to wander into town and swan around, and sip coffee, which back then, was a very sophisticated beverage, and hope the young lords would notice them. It seemed demeaning to me somehow, like being a heifer at a cattle mart.

So I'd wander off, "lonely as a cloud", to walk along the banks of the Shannon, no doubt harboring a vague dream of meeting an equally lonesome, misunderstood soul of the opposite gender along the way. He would, of course, be stunningly handsome,in an understated sort of way, because, as shallow as I wasn't, that was the top priority. Hmmm. Of course the chances were slim to none anyhow, as the "happening" place was not among the lonely reeds by Shannon's banks, but in town at the Savoy cafe.

Once in a while, in town, some older man would smile at me and say "Hey handsome!" Blushing furiously, I feared I was being made fun of, because women were supposed to be pretty, not handsome. Further confirmation that I was falling way short of society's standards. Besides, of what use were the opinions of grown men, when the ones I pined after were snot-nosed adolescents who didn't give me a second glance?

"Youth is wasted on the young," my Dad used to say. I think he may have been right.

It was marriage, that finally set me on the road to enjoying being female. The long discussions, way into the night, with someone who let me see a side of him that no-one else saw, and who seemed to understand me in a way that no one had before.....That, and having children. That rush of fiercely protective love when I first held my babies in my arms. The wonder and awe as they learned to talk, and walk, in spite of having me as their mother. The realisation, when you have sons, that boys are just as sensitive, just as vulnerable, just as much in need of love and protection as girls, since society still expects them to be more stoic about life's little vicissitudes.

I have finally embraced my Inner Sissy. Since all my children are tall, I sometimes even feel small! I glory in my sissiness. I love sissy clothes. I don't care if my husband and son laugh at me when a romantic movie makes me cry. I'm not embarrassed to have to ask them to open those confounded jars for me.

Because I'm strong in ways that they are not. For which the OC gets some credit. He always expected more of me than I thought I was capable of. He came to me from a mother who was an uber-hausfrau, cook and baker extraordinaire, deft juggler of home, family and job---an act so impossible to follow, that, had I been less naive, I'd have run for my life. He took an enormous leap of faith, considering that I couldn't boil an egg when we got married. A few years into it he let slip, truthful to a fault, that even though I wasn't exactly beautiful, I had a nice face..... And great hips for bearing healthy children.[I didn't have a cast-iron frying pan handy at the time...] Gee, so it wasn't, after all, my stunning beauty and incisive wit? Someone teach that man to lie for God's sake!

Everyone has regrets in life and I am no different. But being a woman is not one of them. I wouldn't trade my Inner Sissy for all the tea in China.

Real Women.........

This is giving me bloggers block!

Its not that I don't have ideas, I do. But maybe that's too raw; or this is too emotional; or that's way more of me than I'm willing to put out there; or, or, or!

"So, do it already," my brain has been impatiently nagging. Finally, I came to the conclusion that all the things I've considered would be covered by this:

Real women......are not afraid to let their imperfections show.

I tag Tanya Brown, Riseoutofme and Meggie.


No prizes for guessing which one is me in the picture above.....