Walking On the Rine....Ireland, Day Two

It's Sunday in Florida, dull and gray and ominous. Hurricane Isaac is lurking out there, making everyone skittish. There are places I'd rather be at this moment. An early walk along the Rine for instance. That's a "church" I'd like to attend regularly! One foot in front of the other, the vast dome of sky above, no sounds but the wheeling of gulls, the buzz of bees, the occasional lowing of cattle [watch out for the cow pies!] the soundless bobbing of sailboats far out on the water........

Given the restorative powers of pints of Guinness and a good night's sleep, the cyclists were good as new the day after the "Tour," so off we went to walk on the Rine.

 I shouldn't even be telling you about it as it is the best kept secret in Ballyvaughan, part of the pleasure of walking there being that you often have it almost entirely to yourself! But I'd hate for you to go to north Clare and not know about it!  It's a little peninsula a few miles west from the village, that runs parallel to the shore. At high tide there's only a tiny bit of it visible, but at low tide you can walk all the way out to the end. Access is by climbing over a nondescript gate on the road to Black Head, easily missed, and walking down this little lane to the shore. 

   On your left is the bay, with  the Atlantic beyond, 

and on your right,

 more water between you and the coast.

I kept falling behind the main gaggle, who were busy anyway with cycling postmortems, because I was busy being a "Yank," with my camera!

 We passed a few cows, placidly chewing, completely unconcerned by our presence. The Blister once had a particularly interesting outing to the Rine with a niece of hers who was studying zoology and had enlisted the Blister's help to collect seal poop for some research she was doing! We didn't collect any seal poop and, unfortunately, we didn't see any seals. But there were rocks and cows and birds and clouds and all kinds of beautiful wild flowers. Nothing large and showy, but a profusion of exquisite tiny ones.

Utter contentment.

The Rine feeds a hunger of the soul, but the stomach is unimpressed with flowers and clouds and rocks, so, with the tide coming in, and bellies growling, we headed back to the house.

  

And now the sun's come out in Florida and Isaac seems like an improbable nightmare.

Miss Oriss has sold her father's house as she has no interest in living here, being a cold weather girl. She  hands over the keys at month's end. I never realized how much work one person's death [may the Prince rest in peace] made for those left behind! Even though everything was organized and pristine, sorting out where everything goes, and to whom, has been a mammoth task. So....back to the mines! 

 But in my head today, I'll be walking on the Rine.

Forty Two Years Later....and Holding!

Yesterday, lying in the dentist's chair, white knuckled as always, the Mamas and Papas came on the music system.

 "Stars shining bright above you,
Night breezes seem to whisper- I love you-
Birds singing in the sycamore tree,
Dream a little dream of me......."

coaxing me to relax, recalling the summer I first heard it, the summer I met the OC, the summer that sent my life off in a totally unexpected direction, and perhaps, his too.

The Prince disapproved vociferously, though he had introduced us; his wife disapproved because we "were too young" which we were; my parents, in their diffident way asked "Are you sure?" Who's ever sure? We certainly thought we were! We were younger in this picture [that's a sixteen year old Blister beside us!] than even our youngest child is now....and I  would certainly disapprove if he announced he was getting married next week!

But here we are, against all the odds, forty two years later, still dreamin'! "Love" is almost too trite a word, the way it's bandied about these days. We survived it all, together.

 Here's to you J and at least a few more!

Ireland, Day One

Above---the Blister, her friend and her sister-in-law, all of them quite mad, went off cycling ridiculous distances in the Tour de Burren, along with their assorted, equally mad, menfolk. Being somewhat saner, I elected to mind the house, staying warm and dry, curled up in the cozy kitchen with "Major Pettigrew." As the cyclists disappeared into the early morning mist I settled in with my book and my cup of tea.

By mid-morning the drizzle lifted, so off I ventured, up the lane,

 across the fields,

 past curious cows,

 past the castle,

and finally, not finding the path that would take me upward to the rocky landscape for which The Burren is famous, I climbed over a farmer's gate, pretending not to see the No Trespassing sign, and legged it, fast as I could, up and up and up. 

The higher I climbed, the rockier it became. I think it was Oliver Cromwell, whom the Irish have no reason to love, who said of this area that there was "Not enough soil to bury a man, not enough wood to hang a man and not enough water to drown a man." I think he was wrong about the water. There's plenty of it but much of it flows underground. As I sat, with my back to a rock, I could hear the trickle behind and below me!

People come to this area from all around the world, geologists and botanists especially, to study the limestone terrain and the unusual flowers that grow in the crevices, protected from elements that would normally mean they would not thrive at such a northern latitude

 In no time at all I was up high enough to see all of Co.Clare, and Galway Bay to boot---quite a spectacular view and well worth the huffing and puffing!.

I sat a while and breathed it all in. Such a beautiful place. Easy for me to say. It's beauty meant that land owners here had a hard life, trying to eke a living from the rocky soil. Many had to leave and seek a better life in America when the potato famine meant there was nothing to eat. You cannot feed your children on rocks and pretty, exotic plants.  Thank God for tourism.

Sitting on a rock, looking out at this sweep of Irish countryside and letting my mind wander, I wondered at life, the places it takes you, the twists in the plot....When I'm here I feel I belong to this place, Ireland, and it to me, but among the people [except those closest to me] I feel like a stranger, an outsider---maybe even a traitor.  Somebody , I don't know who, said you can never go home again. And someone else I read recently said---once you live away from Ireland you'll never belong there again.

I  just know that this place stirs something deep in my soul, maybe subconscious memories of past generations, and no matter what anybody says, I know that when I'm here I'm home.

Note: click on the photos for a larger view. Also, notice the castle to the right in the last picture, the same one I passed on my upward climb. It is now a college of art.

Another note: I just realized this is a bit repetitive----and I had the nerve to make fun of the Prince for retelling, ad nauseum, the Threadbare Tales. Looks like I'm working on my own set of Tales. Mea culpa.
But at least, with this [re]telling, you get photographs.

To EveryThing There Is A Season.....Last Rant on The Prince

Note: Found this, half done, in my drafts. Now that I know the ending, I decided to finish it. It might help to explain the prolonged silence from this little corner of  Blogland.

I know, I know! I promised there'd be no more "Prince" rants here. I didn't mean to, but I lied. So here's your chance....Turn back now before I get started!


Having been here, dancing attendance for more than a month, Miss Oriss returned north in mid-May, to take care of some business, say hello to her life and her garden, celebrate her daughter's birthday, and, last but not least, to maintain her sanity. The Prince seemed like he'd manage fine without her for a while. Not only did he rebuff all her efforts to manage his medications for him --- "My body may be veak, but my brain is still sharp!"   Right. He is certainly entitled to his opinion. It also seemed that she was putting a crimp in his social life. Overheard snippets of telephone conversations ---

 "We can meet for dinner after my daughter goes home...."  or

 "I'll call you when my daughter goes back to The North."  And to her----

"So, when are you going home?" Wanting to know the date and the hour. So she did what any angry, frustrated person, who does not like Florida much anyway, would do. She went home.

Fast forward a week.

 Ring, ring.

"Molly, I'm not doing so good."

He pauses for the gravity of this announcement to sink in. I roll my eyes but don't let it reach my voice.

"What's wrong now?" I ask, trying not to emphasize the "now."

"I think I may have to go to hospital." Dramatic pause while he catches his breath ...."I'm very veak....."

When I get to his house he has summoned a nurse's aide he met at his breakfast joint. She tells me his pulse rate is very high.

She's new to his games. I don't tell her that Sir Laurence would look like an amateur here...

So what to do? He likes to get as many people weighing in on the debate as possible.

His new friend is anxious for him to go to the ER. I tell him if he goes he has to stay long enough for them to do something for his problem. No checking himself out when the memories come flooding back--of the less than five star service; of the regular disturbances [imagine! In a hospital!] for blood pressure checks; of the inedible food; of the nerve of the roommate who keeps the TV on at maximum decibels....all day[!!]; of the doctors/nurses/cleaning ladies' lack of interest in the Threadbare Tales. Fascinating as they may be....they have work to do.  He starts to waver. Maybe he should wait and see.?

And so it goes.

Back and forth throughout the day.. Finally, he decides he should go. Miraculously, there is no waiting. They take him right in. And the man whose heart was racing, who could hardly catch his breath earlier, regales the nurses, who are only looking for short answers, with the epic version of everything; the version that starts way back in World War Two.

Two days later, dripped full of vitality inducing fluids, armed with a new prescription, he's back on the street, but "very veak."

So Nellie the elephant packed her trunk and off she went to the circus.....And Miss Oriss, dutiful daughter, who had just unpacked her trunk up north, packed it again, put away her trowel, kissed her garden goodbye, winged her way back to Florida and danced attendance for another month.

Meanwhile, I left for Ireland. The Fourth of July approached. The Bean winged it north to play golf with the OC. Miss Oriss, having satisfied herself that the Prince was well enough to be left alone for a week, accompanied him to the airport, and also winged her way north.

Three days later, with all of us out of his way, the Prince of Carpathia died.

 At home.

 No poking or prodding.

 No loud TV.

 No inedible hospital food

No one to comfort him either,or hold his hand as he exited this world.

We were always at loggerheads, but I never would have wished for him to be alone at the end.


May he rest in peace.



Postscript: The devil in me wishes I could have been a little spider, sitting in my web, in a corner of the Pearly Gates when he arrived. Imagine St. Peter hesitating to let him in.....? The outrage.....

 "Young man, do you know who I am?"

"Yes sir...."

"Let me speak to your supervisor!"


He's probably got his lawyer handling the whole affair.


I hope the lawyer can cut him a deal.

Memo From a Cool, Green Island.....

It hardly seems like it, but I've been here a week already! It is blissfully cool compared to Florida. We've had clouds and rain and fitful sunshine, none of it slowing us in our tracks at all! The Irish could teach the rest of the world to appreciate sunshine....A sunny day makes the whole country giddy with delight!

The Blister and GB cycled in a big cycling event in The Burren last weekend, he in the 100km, she in the 60 km. Various  friends and relatives also did the cycle, so there was a cheerful crowd. The day started wet and drizzly, the kitchen full of upside down bikes and people in lycra! Not being much into masochism, I was very happy to be staying behind in the big, warm, dry kitchen! I had excellent company in Major Pettigrew's Last Stand [by Helen Simonson] and a fine big mug of tea!

After a few chapters though, I noticed that the clouds had lifted and the sun was making a valiant effort. So I set off for the mountain behind the house. Not finding a path off the narrow lane to take me upwards, I climbed over a farmer's gate [after a furtive look around] and struck off across the fields. I was climbing as I went, and soon was on the typical limestone rock of The Burren, and still making tracks up the mountain. It is a breathtaking sight when you get up high enough. All of North Co. Clare is laid out before you, the rocky limestone stretching for miles, little cottages and farms, and Galway Bay off out to the west! I took a gazillion photos but you'll have to wait until I get home and organize them. Meanwhile, just close your eyes and picture a misty blue and green slice of heaven!

There were  lots of hungry people 'round the table that evening and plenty of lasagne and curry for everyone. Then a walk to the village, to the pub which was full of more cyclists and everyone hail- fellow-well-met with everyone else!

It's very nice to be home!

Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven......

"Bring your winter woollies," the Little Blister said.
Summer was last month in Ireland. This month it's "piddling rain and bloody freezing!"

"Bring your winter woollies," said Brit-Boy and the Lovely Natalie.
Summer came in the springtime to the UK. Now it's "piddling rain and bloody freezing" there too.

The Bean came home at the weekend and felt the tension the minute he walked in the door. Invisible, but tangible. It makes him want to turn and run!

"You're freaking out already mom, aren't you?"

 Not really. Pacing a lot, raking my fingers through my hair, avoiding the bedroom where my suitcase lies, open and empty on the floor, demanding to be filled. There was a cat in it for a while. When I freak out he freaks out. He catches the vibe when I still think I'm calm. He knows better. He can tell by the pacing, and the suitcase on the floor. The empty suitcase. A suitcase on the floor never bodes well. It means there's about to be an upheaval of some sort and El Gato dislikes upheavals of any sort. He feels if he climbs in and makes a nest he can alter the disturbing course of events. But he's been evicted and banned from the bedroom. I don't need every stitch I eventually pack covered in cat hair.How do you pack for "piddling rain and freezing" when it's 90 degrees in the shade? Under such conditions, long sleeved, cotton T-shirts start to look like winter woollies.

I'm tense, excited,  nervous....It's not the travelling that bothers me. It's the "What ifs." With the OC in the Far North and The Bean only here on weekends a little voice in my head starts up.....

What if there's a hurricane and large trees fall on the house?

What  if it's so hot the water evaporates from the pool to an extent that makes the pump explode?

What if it rains so hard the pool overflows? [next life, no pool.]

What if unmentionable, scary things happen to people I love while I'm off, swanning around Ireland?

What if I were to take a deep breath, as I've been learning to do at yoga? Because I know that all the fretting is futile.  I know this, but that little voice in my head apparently never got the memo!

I have a list as long as my arm of things to do before Thursday.

You'd think I'd be doing them.

But no. I've been in the sewing room, puttering---to take my mind off the impending need to be organized.

Stress relief.

In a way, I actually am organized. Those piles on the floor?

All the essentials are there: the pounds, the euros, the passport, the flight information, the camera, the chargers, something to read, something to write on and with, something to stitch.  When I do start to put stuff in the suitcase [and it had better be soon] first in will be the legendary ladybug quilt. Legendary for how many years it took to finish! The incentive to do so was the opportunity to hand deliver it to Little Brit-Boy who is already three [!!] and an expert on all things creepy crawly.

And now it's no longer Tuesday. To assuage my guilt at abandoning Pat for so long I went to work today. I left early, at her urging...."Go home and pack!"

Standing, wringing my hands doesn't seem to be working, so I've called on S-I-L for help.She needs a break from The Prince anyway! She'll be by as soon as he is fed and watered, and between us we'll wrestle those winter woollies into that suitcase!

California Dreamin'

Thought I'd better pop you all a line or two before you erase me from your memory! There are about sixteen feeble attempts on my dashboard. Blogger dignifies them with the title "Drafts!" Hmm.....

So I thought " Drafts be damned! I'll just pretend I'm writing a letter!" Part of the "draft" problem is that there is nothing earthshaking or profound going on...... About which I'm certainly not complaining. I've had my fill of "earthshaking," and it's hard to be profound when you're going in five directions at once.

Speaking to the Little Blister on the phone the other day, I asked if she was still writing. It's not as if she has the time or anything, what with teaching yoga, and water aerobics, the recent death of her beloved Larry [R.I.P.] and the care and feeding of the queen in the aftermath. But still, she's good at it, was going to a writing group, but not at the moment, so the short answer was "no." And apart from time, she doesn't have inspiration.

 "Maybe I'll have to start blogging again," quoth she! I'm not holding my breath, but that is a direct quote! Maybe we'll inspire each other, when I see her in a few weeks. 

 There's a strange, white haired, older woman lurking in the mirror these days. I find that, if I pretend not to notice her, I can carry on being thirty five and she can carry on being whatever age she is, and nobody gets hurt..........I'm a year older now than when I last posted. I have reached that venerable age immortalized by the Beatles. God only knows if he "still needs me" but he does "still feed me," and even, once in a while, takes me out for an airing, most recently to California. Since the OC couldn't  be home for my birthday he hatched a plan. We'd meet in Sacramento, hop in a car and drive, drive, drive, north, to visit our California
Girl.

 Last time I saw her was seventeen months ago, so a visit was long overdue.

We accompanied CG on an expedition to the vet one day. And I do mean expedition. It reminded me of when our children were younger. At one time we had a van. It was quite an adventure if all the children had to be rounded up and taken somewhere together! The fact that this time it was a horse trailer, not a mini van hardly matters. The logistics were much the same. The stallion went in first, with longing glances back to the mare in the pasture-----

"Parting is such sweet sorrow!"

But he was a good boy and stood quietly while CG put his socks on.....

But then, Oh joy! She went and brought the mare, who had been whinnying after her man.....

Next into the trailer were her "teenagers" who seemed comfortable with the whole situation since their elders weren't kicking up a fuss!

Here's the vet with his arm buried up to the shoulder, James Herriot -style, inside Maggie, trying to ascertain if there's the beginnings of a foal in there. Sadly there was not.

All the grand-animals got their shots and while the OC helped CG load them into the trailer again, I had time for some random photographs...................This was the scene from the vet's parking lot..............

 The lilies at the top were growing in a ditch at the entrance to the farm where CG boards her horses. Such exquisite perfection growing unheeded in the ditch!

Alongside the lilies was a tangled profusion of wild flowers..........I happily risked falling into the rather wet and messy ditch to bring you this picture...........

 The OC is a restless man, though he would call it  "busy." We can agree to differ on that!  He likes to keep moving, likes to "leave'em begging for more," believes that "fish and visitors stink after a few days......" Well you know all that......

Bottom line: I was not ready to leave after the few days he had planned.

 Wail! "I just got here!"

I was back here before I was fully convinced I'd gone at all. I'd forgotten how beautiful, and vast, California is......

Next time I'm staying 'til I'm kicked out!

California Girl and I even picked out a cottage for our dotage.....but I'll keep that for another post!

Om........

YOGA @ WORK, a photo by P1nc on Flickr.

A long time ago, in a country far, far away, I signed up for yoga lessons. It was at the British School, down the road from where we lived in Belgium. The biggest advantage was that the instructor was a native English speaker. Since I expended tremendous amounts of mental energy "speaking in tongues" every time I left the house, I didn't have any reserves to use on figuring out what a yoga instructor was saying----unless she said it  in English. Buying bread at the bakery, or vegetables at the village market, or cheeses from the delicatessen  all necessitated "speaking in tongues," my own special blend of French, which I'd learned in school, German, which we'd learned while living in Germany, Flemish, which was the official language in our village, mime which I made up on the spot, and a generous helping of  Gibberish to balance everything out. I had even taken the extreme measure of signing up for Flemish lessons in our village. What made this move extreme was that the only flemish classes available were taught in French....as if I didn't have enough chaos in my head already! But I was determined that it was worth a try.  As for my forays to the market, the bakery and the deli, believe it or not, I usually arrived home with exactly what I had set out to buy. But it took it's toll. My clothing would be damp and clammy, and my face scarlet from the combination of my linguistic exertions and acute embarrassment.  Not the effect I was after in a yoga class.

And that was only the half of it. We still, at that time in our lives, had a full house which included a black lab with escape-artist tendencies, a Belgian Malinois puppy one of the children had brought home from the nearby stables, a supercilious Himalayan cat, a pair of chinchillas, an ever changing parade of lizards, frogs and geckos, and several young humans at various stages of development. Getting activities and meals and schedules organized so that I could go to yoga was, in itself, a major feat. I was usually dashing out the door, calling last minute instructions over my shoulder to whichever child I was leaving in charge, and skating in on one heel, after everyone else was already breathing deeply on their mats in preparation for the start of class. Mumbling incoherent [but English!] apologies, I'd flop down onto my mat and fill my lungs with air, then exhale, slowly, until my lungs were as empty as I could get them, then fill them up again.........

And then I'd wake up.....

 ......to the sounds of everyone around me rolling up their mats and gathering their belongings. Almost every time I'd fall asleep after those first few breaths. I must have slept quietly, no snoring, since no one ever poked me in the ribs to either wake me up or shut me up. The instructor never called in the janitors to remove the unresponsive body. She might have been miffed that someone would sleep in her class, or, if one of the purposes of yoga is indeed to relax, she might have thought me her star pupil.....I was too embarrassed to stick around long enough to find out, but scurried off while her more actively enthusiastic students engaged her in after class chit-chat. And while each class was a restful and relaxing experience, I didn't come away from them with any greater knowledge of yoga than I'd had at the outset. So my yoga career was shelved indefinitely.

Until now.

 A few weeks ago, having had it in mind for months, I finally went to a yoga class. And stayed awake the entire time! I seem to have finally reached a point in life where I am, absolutely, ready for this. No use crying over the fact that if I had started a few years ago I might have been much better equipped for some of the curve balls life has thrown this way recently. No matter.  No amount of knowing you should do something, or having someone else tell you how good it would be for you, can make it happen. The only way it happens is to pick the day, ascertain that a class is offered on that day, rummage in the closet for something to wear that is comfortable, cool, and not too ridiculous looking, then get in the car and GO! There's even the added bonus of learning some words in yet another foreign language!

I'm loving it! Even if it is sometimes a hassle to fit it in around everything else, I'm always glad I made the effort. If you have even the slightest inclination to try it I'd say don't wait another day. I've already felt the preamble to rigor mortis---in my lack of flexibility, or the creaking that goes on when I bend my knees. Yoga can change all that, strengthen our core muscles and restore flexibility, and if you find it all a bit strenuous at first you can breathe deep and take a nice, restful nap. I promise not to tell.

Divinity Fluttering By.....

IMG_0946, a photo by Mollybawn on Flickr.

It really is true that the nuns haunt me still. So much of how I think and feel and live hinges on things they taught me, even after all these decades.

Number Three: "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day."

 Way back in Senior Infants we learned the Ten Commandments. Does it count as reverence for creation if this butterfly, spotted outside my window, makes me gasp in awe?

Even God rested on the seventh day. And He was a pretty important guy....

And I don't think He ever made phone calls that ruined someone's otherwise perfectly pleasant Sunday. Of course not everyone had nuns as teachers, so they might have missed the memo on the Sabbath, and the one about maintaining some civility when speaking to others.Words are so powerful. Once they're out of their cage there's no calling them back. Much better to give some thought to which ones you want to release.

While we're being Biblical, another phrase pops into my mind.

 "The meek shall inherit the earth."

 Hmmmm. I may not be inheriting the earth in that case. Since meekness is out,  maybe I'll just turn off the phone on Sundays.

Meanwhile I'm focusing on that beautiful butterfly.

Bird Watching, the Best Therapy

I often think if I have to come back again, and live another life, and another and another, to try and get it right, please God, let me come back as a bird! How lovely to fly above everything, to drift along on invisible currents, changing direction with the merest tilt of a feather. I could fly to the tops of the tallest trees and have a ringside seat every evening for the setting of the sun.

There's a lake a stone's throw from the house and I've been going over there evenings, an hour before sunset, with my camera, to spy on the birds.

On good days I'll see several kinds of wading birds.  Sometimes they're difficult to spot, standing so still, listening so intently......But this evening I met a very lively fellow.

 He hardly stopped moving the entire half hour or so that I watched him. He danced and skipped around in the water with what I can only describe as exuberance, at being alive, and having so many tasty morsels, right there for the catching.....

 Want to learn how to focus and "live in the moment"? Watch the birds!

Forget television, and the pesky procedure of pushing this button, and that, in some ritualized sequence that makes no sense to me. When I need entertainment I grab my camera and walk to the lake. Three minutes on foot and a different performance every evening!

Beaches and Sunshine....and Things that Slither

We went for a walk in the Wildlife Preserve a couple of weekends ago when the OC was home for a few days, and found this fellow, sunning himself along the side of the trail.......I kept my distance as the OC thought he might be a water moccassin.  I had no desire to have a close encounter with a snake of any kind, especially not a poisonous one. We were enjoying the beautiful afternoon and he was too. I was not always so chill about snakes, and I am chill now only by comparison to how I used to be. Our older boys loved snakes and begged to be allowed to have one as a pet. But if that had happened I'd have had to move out.....and they needed a mother more than they needed a pet snake.

Then along came The Bean. From the time he learned to walk he loved anything that ran on four legs, or swam, or flew.........

Or slithered.

Some day I'll have to write about Lauren, the little mouse he brought in from the garden and made a nest for in his room....When he brought home long strings of frog eggs in a bucket I was, at the same time, repelled and fascinated. Because of his persistence I gradually lost [some] of my heebie jeebies and could [to a limited extent] appreciate the wonders of the reptile world. In kindergarten he was an authority on dinosaurs. In middle school he had a subscription to Reptile magazine. The child who wasn't interested in reading stories devoured every word, every month, of that magazine.

Since I had my camera with me I couldn't resist taking a few pictures, brave only because there was a rescuer at hand, should things turn ugly! When we showed the photos to The Bean he confirmed the OC's suspicions. Since this is Florida, and the snakes and the gators were here thousands of years before we moved here, I figure I can be generous, I can share. Live and let live....

Except when I walk out to the patio and find one of their kind in my space! As happened this morning. I headed out the door, crossed the deck and reached to open the pool cage door. Something at the base of the door moved, slithered in fact!

I moved too---three feet, straight up into the air. Didn't know my old knees had it in them! When I landed I very gingerly opened the door to let him out, but he didn't appreciate my kind gesture and started rattling his tail at me. Neither of us was happy at this point. Heart in mouth, I decided I needed a broom to nudge him in the right direction.

 The door was right there, wide open, but we had a merry dance before he twigged it and raced off  into the grass. [Mental note: don't walk barefoot in the grass!] He was just a black racer, nothing dangerous, but still, not welcome that close to the house!

You'd think that was enough excitement for one day....but there was more. After watering some plants outside, I was coming back into the house when I heard a rustling sound from the back corner of the garage where I had thought there was nothing but inanimate objects. Something is alive back there and I'm too spooked, with snakes so recently on my mind, to investigate alone. I'm also not confident that I could move with the alacrity that might be required........It's the weekend though and The Bean should be home this evening................In the meantime I'll be watching my step. Stay tuned!


Note: You'd think that if Zoombrowser is going to put the date on my photos it could at least get it right!

"It was a dark and stormy night....."

A blizzard in fact. Almost nine months pregnant, I had protested loudly  "No no no! Not now! Don't go!"  He assured me he'd be back before the baby came. Whatever wild hair made him decide that now was a good time to go to California to pick up the sporty little car he had left there with friends when we had moved to Montana was beyond my capacity to comprehend.

And now it was the 8th.of April, my due date, and our hero was headed home, somewhere between California and Montana....

In the dark....

In a blizzard....Stop for a little bad weather? Nonsense! He was a man, not a pansy! Real men stick their heads out the window if they can't see through the windshield....and keep going.

And he had been right. There was no baby yet. Even before he was born, our Chuk E Boy was a gentleman.

I waddled from door to window to kitchen to bedroom.....No matter what they say about tall women carrying better, at nine months you're a duck, lacking only the quack. Where was he? Shouldn't he be home by now?

I dozed off for a while, then woke with a start. The garage door? Surely I'd heard it opening? I peered out the window but all was dark, nobody there. Then the phone rang.

It was a nurse at the hospital. In a gentle, soothing voice she told me I shouldn't panic, they had my husband, he'd had an accident, but he was going to be alright.

I have no idea how I got to the hospital.....Did I drive? Did someone else drive me? What did I do with Lily? She was two and a half at the time. I know I didn't leave her alone. I must have taken her to a neighbour.....

I only remember waddling through the hospital entrance,  and seeing the OC being wheeled somewhere on a stretcher. He had bits of glass sticking out of his face. He didn't look his best.

He had gone off the highway in the middle of nowhere, with zero visibility, in the blizzard. Still driving when any sane person would have pulled off somewhere and waited it out. Probably read too many superhero comic books as a child.

On the 12th. April I woke up at 6:30 a.m.to the realization that Oh boy! I was in labour! And how. It had been moving along quietly while I slept and now it was getting serious. The plan was to call our friend, Tom, to come and get me, since the OC had broken a few toes which were now held together with steel pins and plaster of Paris, rendering driving impossible, not to mention unwise. Tom 's wife was also due around the same time so this was a practice run for him. It was a bumpy and wild ride to the hospital with contractions coming close together and poor Tom, who was a Montana boy, born and bred, who only took off his cowboy hat and cowboy boots to sleep, and had doubtless seen plenty of calves born, begging me to hold on; he didn't want to deliver any babies in his old rattletrap of a car and could I please just wait a few more minutes....

At the hospital it seemed to me the most comfortable place to be was on all fours, on the floor, dignity be damned.  The nurses were having none of that though, all bustle and business and deaf to my pleas. They were determined that no babies would be born on floors, no matter how comfortable it was down there for mothers.

At around 7:30 a.m.the doctor announced that we had a beautiful baby boy. A little brother for Lily. I remember the euphoria, and sunshine streaming in the window and the mountains visible off on the horizon.....Believe it or not, there was a window in the delivery room, open to let in the sunshine and the view of the mountains ---only in Montana!

Since then there have been thirty seven April 12ths.and lots of water under the bridge.

It was often said of my dad that "He was one of Nature's Gentlemen."  Is it too outlandish to imagine that one's son could be the reincarnation of one's father? He certainly is also "one of Nature's Gentlemen." My dad died on April 8th [my due date] the year before this son was born....

Food for thought or at least speculation!  Happy Birthday Chuk E Boy!

Ambushed by Contentment

It was not your traditional Easter here. With such a skeleton crew, it's difficult to get worked up about it. The Bean was home. Turned a quarter century very quietly yesterday.

Spent some time talking to siblings by phone, but, funnily enough, showed no interest in hunting for eggs on Easter morning! Not like when he and his brothers and sisters were little, and sleep deprivation was the order of the day, and still they'd come bouncing into our bed before dawn, all excited to start the hunt. "It's the middle of the night go back to bed there's a good child come back in the morning when your mother's not in a coma from staying up late hiding painted eggs and organizing Easter baskets" fell on deaf ears, and, awake or not, the hunt was on. What fun we had! But in your twenties? Not that interested....Unless you have little people of your own, then the craziness starts all over, but we're in no hurry to go there. It was nice to sleep 'til we woke.

Even though it would have been nice to have everyone here, I was happy knowing that Oldest Son and the OC were getting together up north, closing the five hour driving gap to spend the weekend together.

And, Joy of Joys, Sister-in-law has reluctantly left her house and beloved garden up north and returned to play nursemaid to the Prince. He could hardly wait for her to get here but started arguing with her before she had her suitcase unpacked! We'll see how long she can last this time..... Meanwhile, respite for moi!

The Bean took himself off to hit little white balls for the afternoon leaving me on an island of blissful tranquility---several uninterrupted hours to sit outside, sipping my lemon water, immersed in my book---The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles by Haruki Marukami which Oldest Son and I are reading together, comparing notes as we go. So far, very interesting. [Yes, Birdy, this is for you!]

Meanwhile a fat little red bird [a cardinal, I think] was chirping persistently and noisily in one of the pine trees with the low, throaty coo of doves as his backup....

Between chapters I paused to fill my lungs with the intoxicating perfume of the confederate jasmine that is indulging in some riotous living at the moment, unhampered by the pruning it so desperately needs.

A different, but equally intoxicating aroma wafted out from the kitchen----the aroma of roasting lamb with overtones of garlic and herbs..... 

As the sun sank lower, throwing exaggerated tree shadows across the grass, I felt peaceful and contented. It's a feeling that sneaks up when you're least expecting it. Petty worries and nagging aggravations just melt off into the trees for a while, letting you enjoy this moment. Now.

All in all, a lovely day. I hope you all had one just as lovely.

Recent Kickle Sighting

We had life, cameras and action here last Saturday. The OC was home, a brief twenty four hour stop on his way to Chile. Lily, Son-in-Law and the Spinny Kickles, heading back from their beach week,

stopped in for a visit; the Bean was back for the w.e.; and the Girlfriend came over.  Rather than torturing the Kickles by visiting the Prince in his castle, where they would have to remove shoes, and sit like little girls with hands in laps, and make no loud noises or boisterous movements, the Prince came here.  And got reaquainted with his darling grand-daughter and great grandsons. His eyes lit up when they fell on Son-in-Law, a perfect victim for the Threadbare Tales! So the boys were free to romp while their Dad took it in the ears with his usual grace and aplomb!

The OC and Son-in-law manned the grill and nobody left the table [outside, glorious weather] hungry, though youngest Kickle hesitated over his Brat Wrap, pushing it aside and munching on greens and pasta salad instead. Finally, he chanced a nibble. And found, to his surprise, that "it wasn't as bad as he expected!"

With a long road ahead, the travelers left early, the Prince returned to his still-pristine castle, mollified to have been invited, and having an opportunity to give the Tales an airing, and the OC fell asleep on the couch. By daybreak on Sunday he'd already taken to the skies, en route to Santiago, where he landed safely, in spite of the earthquake they'd arranged to welcome him!

Bright and early tomorrow the OC lands here again for a few days of relaxation [perchance].....Though he will be in hyper-efficient, tax return preparation mode..............Hmmmm. To stay or find a quilt shop to visit?

St Patrick Said I Could...Eat Cookies for Dinner

Note: I tried to post this on Sunday evening but blogger wanted to have a fight instead.....The fact that I'm able to post it now, three days too late, is a testament, if not to my technical savvy, to my stubbornness....So there Blogger! MB



Ireland scenic, a photo by Larry Gaskill on Flickr.

"It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment?"

This quote, from Vita Sackville-West, someone long dead, popped up somewhere during the week and caught my eye. Necessary indeed, but what if nothing but rubbish flows from my pen....? What if no butterflies inhabit my moments? Keep writing, the sages say! At this moment there are several half-baked blatherations stacked in a teetering pile in my drafts, and not a one of them worth a tinker's curse. As a schoolgirl I always had secret notebooks in which I'd start stories. There were lots of starts, but not too many finishes. I came to the sad conclusion that I would have to put my stories on hold 'til I'd lived a little longer and had some kind of idea how life actually happens when one is released from the clutches of the nuns, with all their "thou shalts" and "thou shalt nots." Not realizing at the time that, long after the nuns were no longer a physical presence, the "thou shalts" and "thou shalt nots" would be indelibly imprinted on my brain.

Besides, stories written by other people were so tidy! There was a beginning, a middle and an end. The plot was developed early, it thickened 'round the mid-point, and all conflicts were satisfactorily resolved before, or on, the last page. Was it me, I wondered? My life didn't seem very tidy. All kinds of threads seemed to hang in mid-air, indefinitely, unresolved. How to stitch them all into the seams so I'd have a clear beginning, middle and end? Because of course, when you're fifteen, it's all autobiographical . It's all about you, thinly disguised as "fiction!" And now, even though so many years have gone by, and I have experienced beginnings and middles, I'm still waiting to find out "What happens next?"

Reading another book by Maggie O'Farrell, "After You'd Gone, " I noticed no frayed edges there! She takes her loose, seemingly disconnected threads and magically weaves them into a complicated, but coherent tale with a beginning, a middle and an end, though her beginning is likely to be in the middle, her middle at the beginning, and her end, at least, at the end, where it belongs! And as she flits between the three, building suspense, layer by layer, and every bone in your body is screaming for "Sleep!" you have to keep those pages turning 'til you reach the last one because how could you sleep without knowing "What happens?"

She left me mesmerized, again, wondering what kind of living she had to do to come up with such ingenious plot twists and turns......Or could it be that she was born knowing? Or was she "here before," as they say in Ireland of children suspected of having been brought by the fairies? That and heaping helpings of talent and imagination.....Whatever it is, may I have some please? Meanwhile, I'm half way through "The Hand That First Held Mine."

There was skinny dipping here today! Two live-wire, incredibly tall [since I saw them last] "Spinny Kickles"* blew in on the early morning breeze, looking for pancakes. They were en route to The Beach for Spring Break, and since they're not yet old enough to drive [9 and 7] they brought mom and dad along. Having driven through the night, mom and dad were a little frayed around the edges....Which is why we keep pillows and beds around. The reason we keep sofas around is so that canny cats can retreat thereunder at the first boy-sterous shout, the sight of swiftly flashing boyish limbs and ---hurry! dash!---the loud and extremely wet splash of water!

I was restless when they left and thought they should live closer to me, or I to them, as my grandmother did, twenty five miles out the road.....I wonder if Karma is catching up with me? Because of choices I made, my own mother rarely saw her grandchildren..........and then she died. Which, I'm beginning to realize, could be in the cards for me! "And miles to go before I sleep!"

How to drive out those twin snakes---Sad and Lonely? And it St. Patrick's Day, for pity's sake! I hauled out a big coffee table book of photos of Ireland. That didn't exactly help, though it was soothing, looking at all those photos of familiar places. And to read snatches of familiar poetry-----



Scenic Ireland, a photo by iwinatcookie on Flickr.


"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee.
And live alone in the bee-loud glade."                  By W. B. Yeats

And some not so familiar---

"We are the music makers,
And we are dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams..."             by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Obviously this was not improving my mood. I was becoming more maudlin by the minute. What I needed was some music; some jigs and reels to keep my toes tapping while I..........baked something! That's what I'd do! Soda bread maybe? It being St Paddy's Day and all? But I wasn't in the mood for soda bread. Maybe later in the week. For now I decided on chocolate chip cookies, because how can you be sad when there are home made chocolate chip cookies in the house?

I even added oatmeal as a virtuous nod to nutrition. And since we'd had a barbecue before the beach goers departed, I didn't see anything wrong with having chocolate chip cookies for dinner---one as an appetizer, two for the main course, one in place of salad and one for dessert. With a tall glass of milk, because, if you never drink milk on any other occasion, you must drink milk with chocolate chip cookies. Otherwise they don't go down right! I may have to have one more as a snack before bed, along with another serving of Irish music, played loudly...............

And when I wake up tomorrow it'll no longer be St. Patrick's Day, and, God willing, I won't have a bellyache, and I can shake off this homesick melancholy and figure out "what happens next."

Grandma, What Big Teeth You have!

Wolf as Grandma, a photo by Mona Besharati on Flickr.

Out running errands this afternoon I found myself in step behind a young woman and her little daughter. A tiny, sweet-face child of about three with dark tumbling curls. She was clutching a banana. Childbirth had left mom rather chunky, but she was nonetheless dressed in the current popular fashion of clothing that looks like it was painted on. Never mind that it emphasized all her bulges, leaving nothing much to the imagination. She was impatient with the child, urging her roughly to hurry up, refusing to open the banana for the little girl, saying it was easy, she could do it herself. And I thought how often I use a knife to make a nick in the banana skin to make it easier to open!. The mother continued complaining at the little girl, saying she should have waited 'til they got to Target where the banana would have been cheaper. The little girl kept pleading for her mother to open the banana, and her mother continued to churlishly refuse. I would have offered to open it for the little one but that probably wouldn't have gone over too well with mom, so I passed them on the sidewalk and kept going.....

But they stayed in my head. I found myself wondering how the woman felt when she was pregnant. Was she excited? Was she in awe of the fact that a little stranger was growing and developing inside her? Was it impossible to imagine what the child would be like? Did she wonder if it would be a boy or a girl? Did she daydream for hours about names, about how she would play with her child, teach her songs, read to her, dress her in pretty clothes, put ribbons in her hair?

What happened between then and now? What happened to turn her sweet-faced little girl from a miracle into an irritation? What happened to make her refuse to open a banana, expecting the little girl, with her tiny bird-like bones, to do it herself?


A little nine year old girl's death was in the news recently. Her grandmother is being charged with her murder She died from extreme dehydration after being punished for eating chocolate by being made to run continuously for several hours. By her grandmother. If I was to be thusly punished for eating chocolate when I shouldn't, I'd have had to "put my affairs in order" a long time ago. Grandmama will cool her heels in prison for a long time but that poor little girl's life is over. All because she ate some chocolate she wasn't supposed to. That and the small matter of having a witch for a grandmother.

Anyone who has had children knows that the little darlings can push you to the brink of insanity. I'm just wondering what happens in your head to push you over that brink?