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.....

Rambling Preamble to the Real Women Meme

When I read the first part of Nutmeg's post on Real Women, I thought immediately of something I wrote almost twenty years ago. Further down, I found that she had tagged me to do it too, and so the hunt began.....

"Where did I put it? Where the hell is it? I know I put it here."

There's usually some logic to where I stash things----hush you in the peanut gallery, there is...its just not your garden-variety logic. Finally, after tears of frustration, and muttered imprecations about my untidy mind, I found it. In the first place I had looked---just not thoroughly enough.....sigh.

For a little background. We were living in Montana. It was the middle of winter. There was snow on the ground and frost in the air. Liz was in tenth grade, the boys were in seventh and fifth, California Girl was four or five, and always ready to divest herself of whatever warm clothing I had trussed her up in, and escape to the outdoors to run naked in the snow. The YS was still in diapers. And if you're not tired already, just thinking about that much, we also had two rambunctious springer spaniels, barely out of puppyhood. There was a shadowy figure we called Dad in the picture, but he was a squadron commander at the time and always at work.

The day in question was one of those, where, from the moment your feet hit the floor in the morning, everything goes wrong. When the children came home from school everyone was milling around the kitchen, which was none too spacious. Strange and noxious fumes were emanating from the diapered one. And THEN someone let the dogs in. Joyous dogs they were, and I loved them dearly, just not at that particular moment on that particular day. They had their dancing shoes on, courtesy of Mr. Montana Winter, and they were ecstatic to see the kids. Bedlam. Screeching children. Excited, tap-dancing,vigorously tail-wagging,enthusiastically drooling dogs, muddy ice quickly turning to muddy slush all over the kitchen floor..... Something exploded inside my head.

"Out!" I roared. I had to roar. No one would have heard me if I'd spoken in my normal, civilised voice.

"Out of my kitchen! All of you! And don't come back!"

They scattered. To bedrooms, to the basement, to Timbuktu, for all I cared. I slammed the door shut, grabbed some paper and a pen, sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor, and through tears of rage aud frustration, wrote the following advertisement, which I had every intention, no matter how ridiculous it sounded, of sending to the classified section of the newspaper.


"Wanted ASAP!

One warm and kindly woman, to care for five children, their father and their dogs.
Must be a refined person, even-tempered, understanding and infinitely patient.
Should be content to work for love, not filthy lucre.
Must agree, in writing, never to develop the flu, a headache, an upset stomach, an aversion to children, or anything that might hinder her in the proper discharge of her duties.
Said duties will include cooking, cleaning, dusting, scrubbing, and laundry ---in its multi-faceted glory. In addition, the applicant will be on call twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year. This cannot be over-emphasised as unforseen emergencies occur with regularity.

A very dim view would be taken of an applicant likely to come unglued at the sight of broken bones, split chins, gaping wounds or gushing blood. An iron constitution is imperative.

The successful applicant should be a person of humble, self-effacing disposition, since the pursuit of personal interests might lead to discord in the household. Of course this requirement would be waived in the desirable, but unlikely,event the applicant actually gets her jollies from scrubbing, cooking, cleaning, dusting,and laundry in its multi-faceted glory.

The person selected will find she spends most of her day caring for the children, ensuring that they are at all times clean, warm, well-fed and healthy. The littlest girl has a penchant for running naked in the snow; the boys show little interest in wearing clothing appropriate to the season, and have a particular aversion to baths and picking up their toys.

It would be expected of the successful applicant that she would overcome these minor problems in a cheerful and positive manner. She should strive to maintain a calm, harmonious atmosphere, and never resort to such extreme measures as locking the little darlings in their rooms and throwing the keys down the toilet, or forcing them to go to bed without ice cream. Gentle persuasion is preferred at all times to ranting and raving, especially in family room combat situations. She must be mindful always of their delicate psyches. Hers however, should be of steel.

The applicant will find it is easier to achieve peak performance in her duties if she can arrange to have six additional hours in her day instead of the usual twenty four.

While the older children are in school, in addition to the younger two, she will have complete charge of the family dogs. Their intake of playdoh, which the pre-schooler generously shares with them, must be carefully monitored to ensure that it does not exceed the USRDA for dogs under one year. The applicant's chances of securing this job will be greatly enhanced by the ability to wield a poopie-scooper with skill and a pleasant smile.

The father will be the easiest part of this job, departing as he does, before dawn, and returning well after dark. His requirements are few ---sporadic feeding, a steady stream of clean underwear and shirts, and peace and quiet on his rare sojourns at home.

This highly desirable job is available only because the person currently holding the position is losing her grip on reality and will be departing soon to take up beachcombing in the Bahamas.

Qualified applicants may obtain further details from Molly Bawn. But hurry. She may have a better day tomorrow."


So there you have it. Real women, as much as they love being moms and wives, need to have breathing space, and time,once in a while, just a little time, to remember who they were before life swept them away on this marriage, children, mortgage, sleep deprivation roller-coaster ride. Guilty as charged.

Did I hear someone mutter "procrastinator"? Once again, guilty as charged........I'm thinking, I'm thinking! More next post.....

Messing About On The River

As soon as breakfast was inside the munchkins we were off on the adventure of the day. Today it was kayakking. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, the aged bones braced themselves for the workout to come, and the owner of one of the younger sets of bones fretted ..... Bear talked non-stop all the way to the river. Details had to be ironed out in his head as to how it would all go down. He tried issuing edicts about who would go in the red kayak, and who would go in the blue, assuming those were the colours we'd get, but even more importantly, who would go in mommy's kayak! Rowdy Roo won that round. Sometimes it just pays to be the youngest...

Once on the river Bear relaxed. He sat up front taking everything in, especially the design details of mechanical devices some people use to lift their boats clear of the water. Roo meanwhile, floated with his mommy, keeping a weather eye out for lonely ducks and such.

Several friendly people, seeing the style the boys were travelling in, called out to them from the banks of the river, congratulating them on getting the grown-ups to do the donkey work!

So Bear and I made a pact. Or rather, I suggested it and he sort of grudgingly agreed. And it was this: that in another ten years we'd go out on the river again, and he would bundle my bones, wrapped in a comfy blanket, into the front seat of the kayak, slather "sunscream" on whatever parts remained exposed, make sure I had a good grip on the winebottle, and that the chocolates were within easy reach, then he'd paddle us off out into the gulf for a few lazy hours, because of course, by then, he'd be a tall, strong, muscular teenager.........do you think I should get it in writing?

.....this fellow here was out on the river too, enjoying the sun and the fishing.

"Our Looking For Our Mommy"

If anyone had told me, when I was in the throes of raising children, that the day would come when I could visit the bathroom alone, take a shower alone, when I wouldn't have to share sips of every cup of tea I drank with tea-loving munchkins, go shopping, just for fun, alone, actually browse at the library, I wouldn't have believed them. But, look at me now. I even have time to blog! And so it will be for my daughter, even though, right now, she receives such true and well-intentioned comments with a look that says "Right. You're just humouring me!"

A few days ago I found my DD with her Bear and her Rowdy Roo , at the airport. I'd only run like a rabbit up and down the escalator between the arrivals gate and baggage claim about four times....when there she was, smiling and serene . She was happy to see me. I am, after all, her Mommy. The Bear and the Rowdy Roo eyed me with suspicion and clung like limpets to their mother's legs. "Who," you could imagine them thinking, "is this grinning, aged fool, addressing us in such familiar terms?" Ah, the trials of long distance grandparenthood!


Day One we headed to the Wildlife Park, where Bear and Rowdy Roo set about proving that the toddler urge to climb is universal.

The little duck and his turtle friend were not the main attractions, but they were the ones that caught my eye.They made me think of 2 1/2 yr. old Rowdy's comment every time he saw an animal not in the company of at least one other of its own kind ---- "Our looking for our mommy."

Granny's Cottage

Lovely comments on my Paddy's Day post---thank you all for dropping by. If you make the soda bread, soak a cup of raisins for thirty minutes in half a cup of whiskey [or boring hot water!] and add with the flour. Don't throw that whiskey down the sink! Save it and toss it into your next cup of tea. Bake the bread five or ten minutes longer than instructions say. You guessed it--the overbaked loaf tasted better than the first one. Great for breakfast any day of the year....

Even though I can remember my Granny's house before they got electricity out the country, I'm really not so ancient. In fact, having just read somewhere that sixty is the new "middle age", I realise I'm just a young whippersnapper, having a couple of years still to go!

The old house was the farmhouse where my mother grew up. It burned down sometime in the mid fifties, and was replaced with a modern monstrosity. I always loved the old house better---thick whitewashed walls; thatched roof; tall, white haired grandfather still alive; oil lamps lit in the evenings; down on your knees, if you stayed late, to recite the rosary with Granny, auntie and the uncles, and no complaining that the stone floor hurt your knees; window seats, a half door that let the sunshine in but kept the chickens out, a cobblestone yard in front, a tangle of wild roses and gooseberry bushes out back-----and a sweeping view of the entire county ---- could heaven be any better?

When the new house was finished, and Granny installed in its modern comforts, she and my aunt and my mum would sit there chatting and drinking tea, when we'd drive out for a Sunday afternoon visit. As soon as I could, I'd escape, and go off up the passage to the shell of the old house, and spend blissful hours rummaging around there. There were old books and periodicals, sheet music and photographs, cold cream jars and knick knacks ........ I remember finding a little mug, very dainty, with flowers painted on it. I brought it back down to the new house and showed my treasure to the grownups, and asked if I could keep it. My own mother pounced on it and appropriated it, claiming it had belonged to her as a girl. There was no arguing. It was hers. I guess she didn't realise how completely enchanted with it I was. Or care. It was carried back to Limerick with us and set on the sitting room mantlepiece, where I could look at it but not touch, even though I always felt it rightly belonged to me!

In the fullness of time the old cottage was torn down, and modern milking parlors built in it's place. Whatever artifacts were saved were then stored in the loft above the old milking barn, so while the womenfolk chattered, I' d go and climb up to the loft, and spend hours mooning over old photographs, and wondering who they all were, and if I dared ask to be allowed to take some of them home......

The new house, even though it lacked the charm and personality of the old one, and had a modern Aga cooker instead of the open hearth, could still be relied on to have the smell of freshly baked soda bread lingering in the corners every time we went to visit.

Erin Go Bragh!

"If you're Irish, come into the parlour

There's a welcome there for you.

If your name is Timothy or Pat

[or Liz , Rise, Aunty, Lukey, Meggie,

Isabelle, Tanya, Jess, Karen,

Tracey, Kelli, Joyce, Stomper, MJD,

Float, Nutmeg, Diana, Ali, Squirrel,

or anyone who regularly lurks around these parts!]

So long as you come from Ireland

[or NZ, Australia, Scotland, the US or England!]

There's a welcome on the mat.

If you come from the Mountains of Mourne,

Or Killarney's lakes so blue,

We'll sing you a song, and we'll make a fuss,

Whoever you are, you're one of us.

If you're Irish, [or any of the above]

This is the place for you!"

With apologies to the unknown author.

I have one cake of soda bread in the oven and another one ready to go. It smells divine! Wish you all could come over to help eat it....

Sometimes, particularly in March[!] the stage-Irishry gets out of hand. The worst offenders are the OC and the YS, each of whom thinks he has the Irish accent nailed! But shure, "Gosh and Begorrah!" I do love it when I get cards from my far flung friends, just because St. Paddy's Day is coming!

I remember the first time my Dad, who worked for Aer Lingus, went to NY for the St. Patrick's Day parade. We never got that excited about it at home. Sure, we might have the day off from school, and we might wander into town to watch the local parade and, guaranteed, mother would buy pins with foil harps and real shamrocks on them, and expect us to wear them, which, in my teenage sophistication, I thought was an embarrassingly uncool display [ who can understand the workings of the teenage mind?] And inevitably St. Patrick's day would fall smack in the middle of Lent. So you couldn't even eat sweets without pangs of guilt.......

But, back to my Dad and the parade on Fifth Avenue. He was flabbergasted to meet people who couldn't find Ireland on the map if their lives depended on it, decked out, nevertheless, from head to toe in garish green outfits that would make any self-respecting Irishman, such as himself, squirm with embarrassment. He was mortified, I think, at the idea, that seemed rampant in the States, that we were a nation of yokels, running around looking for pots of gold at the ends of rainbows.

"They even painted the line down the middle of the avenue green!" he told us in wonderment.

If I do say so myself, that bread smells wonderful---the first is out, the second is in......two different recipes. Of course half the reason they smell so delicious is that they carry me back to my mother's kitchen. It was always great to be done with school for the day, but to come in the door and breathe in the warm inviting smell of freshly baked soda bread was bliss indeed. Not that mother would let us lay into it the way my lot would. You weren't allowed to have any until it was completely cooled, because, she said, it would "sit like a stone in your stomach." Even as a grownup I've never had the willpower to wait. It always tastes best while still warm , so what was that all about??

My grandmother's kitchen, out the road in Ardpatrick, was another haven of great baking aromas. I'm old enough [age has some compensations!] that I can remember the "old house" there, which burned down when I was about six or seven. In the "old house" there was no electricity. Only oil lamps. And water had to be carried in buckets from the spring. And the baking was done over the big open fire in the kitchen. The soda bread would be placed in a big black pot with a lid, and hung over the fire to bake. It was an exacting science, and Granny was the expert. She knew just how high or low to hang it, how vigorous the fire had to be, and whether or not it might be necessary to place some pieces of red hot peat on the lid to provide even heat. All I know is that it smelled like heaven.

So, just in case you'd like to celebrate St. Patrick's Day with a few slices of delicious , good-for-you, Irish bread , here's a recipe.

O'Brien's Irish Bread

[from The Star Tribune in Minneapolis]

1 1/2 cups stone-ground whole wheat flour

1 cup all-purpose flour [I use 3/4 cup, plus 1/4 cup wheat germ]

1/4 cup dry oat-bran hot cereal

1/4 cup regular rolled oats

2 tblsps sugar

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

2 tblsps soft butter

1 1/2 cups buttermilk, divided

3 tblsps melted butter

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Dust baking sheet with flour.

In large mixing bowl, combine flours, dry cereal, oats, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and salt.

Cut in soft butter.

Stir in 1 1/4 cups buttermilk.

Gradually add remaining 1/4 cup buttermilk, kneading in the bowl as little as possible until dough is moist.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and roll into a seven inch round loaf.

Place on a baking sheet.

With a sharp knife cut an "x" on top.

Bake 40-45 mins. until bread is golden brown and sounds hollow when tapped with a knife.

Remove to a wire rack and brush with melted butter. Keep your mitts off it for one hour, until completely cool. Wouldn't want you getting stones in your stomach!

This recipe is tried and true, the first one I made today. The second one into the oven was a recipe that I found in the food section of the paper this week. Very similar to the above, with the addition of raisins soaked beforehand in whiskey. Yum. Except....I was so wrapped up in writing this that, having learnt nothing from the Burnt Boiled Eggs Debacle, I missed the timer going off.......at best it will be super crispy, at worst I'll have a new doorstop.

Erin go Bragh means Ireland Forever. One creative interpretation, on a card that arrived this week, showed two Irish colleens. Colleen # 1 has perky boobs and a T-shirt that says "Erin go Bragh". Colleen # 2 has saggy boobs. Her T-shirt says "Erin go Braghless". Groan.

So, whether you identify with Colleen # 1 or Colleen # 2,

here's:

"Wishing you walls for the wind

And a roof for the rain

And tea beside the fire.

Laughter to cheer you

And those you love near you

And all that your heart might desire."

And now, for your viewing pleasure....or maybe not....

Twenty past eight on Monday night and I'm blogging. I love to blog. But not between eight and nine on a Monday evening. Because that's when I watch Prison Break. Or should I say that's when I would like to watch Prison Break . On Tuesday night its Gilmore Girls. Then I'm done for the week. Two shows. With some weather and news thrown in along the way.

As the clock crept towards eight, I downed tools, went and sat on the couch and picked up the black remote from the coffee table. Clicked the red button that usually turns the infernal machine on. The screen turned bright blue, but remained blank. Oh-oh. We'd had it set for a video over the weekend. And this was the first time I'd turned it on today. Not a good omen. Me and things electronic do not get along. Especially since we moved here. At which time the OC updated his equipment........electronic that is...... But I don't cave without a fight.

Before going into full battle mode I had to fortify myself. Briefly considered opening the half bottle of wine that lay in the fridge and chugging it. But settled instead for a cup of industrial strength tea.......No lily-livered Lipton's for me, but a cup of robust, steaming Barry's. When the going gets tough the Irish crave tea. [Ok, ok, some of them crave whiskey too!]

Thus fortified, I approached the coffee table again. And cast a jaundiced eye on the remotes lying there. All four of them. And two more on top of the T.V. Six altogether. One of them had to have a magic button that would solve my problem. So I started pressing. I pushed one that said "cable". Nothing. I pushed "tv", "info", "menu". Nothing, nothing, nothing. I pressed "cable" again, "guide", channel buttons, volume buttons, "setup". Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. N.O.T.H.I.N.G!!!! The blasted T.V. just sat there, looking inscrutable, while my blood pressure rose. I would have taken pleasure in smashing something hard and metallic through it, like a frying pan. But I refrained.

For someone who should have been born in the 1800's, I think I manage remarkably well in the modern world. I can drive a car, a stick shift at that. I can operate all kinds of electrical appliances from a toaster to a sewing machine, and beyond. I recently even learned how to operate a food processor without mincing my fingers. And coffee? I can use a grinder with the best of them. But a television set? Floors me.

I've been in this situation before. One memorable night, when the YS was still in high school, he and the OC went to watch a soccer match at the school, leaving me the luxury of watching Gilmore Girls, undisturbed. IF I'd been able to turn the blasted thing on. I ended up, instead, whimpering on the couch until they returned. And with deft flicks of their male wrists brought the infernal machine roaring to noisy life. Showoffs.

To my way of thinking progress should, by definition, make life simpler. What is simple about a stable of six remotes? I have the solution. Never mind the complicated inventions of the gadget-crazed male segment of the population. What about this for a radical breakthrough----One remote. Two buttons. One turns the Blasted Thing on. The other turns the Blasted Thing off. Stunning in its simplicity, don't you agree?

At ten past nine the phone rang. The daily call from the OC. After hearing my tale of woe he told me that I could stop pouting. Prison Break wasn't even on tonight! Not until next week........Ooh. In the immortal words of Emily Latella*, delivered with her best SEG-------"Never mind."

But what about Gilmore Girls tomorrow night??


*Gilda Radner in the early days of Saturday Night Live.

O Frabjous Day!

It's always nice when a new commenter shows up on your blog. Riseoutofme at http://notimetodonothing.blogspot.com/ showed up on my last post, and as is my wont, I clicked over to check it out. And came up on a blank blogger wall*. Hmmm.

Went away to the garden to cogitate while pulling weeds. Back later to find some jockeying for position in the "Who gets the next quilt" line going on between Aunty Evil and the mystery commenter! Followed by a comment from Detective Liz, who, after careful examination of the scant available evidence [to wit --- ranting --- it's genetic] concluded that it must be one of her siblings. Certainly a possibility. The comments do have a hauntingly familiar ring. Aye. But which sibling?

Back outside to the sunshine to plant some tomatoes. Have I mentioned how beautiful the weather has been here for the last few days?

Thirst drives me back inside just as the telephone rings.
Detective Liz reporting, triumphantly, that she's cracked the case! It is not, as we had surmised, her brother, our Bonny Boy over the ocean, but my sister, her aunt, who also lies over the ocean.

"O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

I chortled in my joy."

My Little Blister has recently acquired a new laptop, to replace the dinosaur with which she had been waging a losing battle. One of the many benefits was that she could finally read my blog and the blogs of all the lovely people who regularly comment thereon. And it was good. And the Blister was happy, for a while. But, being a person of action, just reading was soon not enough . She wanted in. And so, riseoutofme was born.

The really weird thing about this is that my very first post, I write best on a bicycle, back on August 2 nd. 2006, was also about a bicycle! What are the chances?? Skip on over and pay her a visit . You won't be sorry.

*The blank wall is gone. She was still tweaking the setup. Full blogger profile available for your perusal!

February Wrap-up

Saw a few good movies in February. Can you stand one more review? Friday night. Technically not in February, but my brain was still stalled there. Me and one very subdued cat watched Ladies in Lavender, with Maggie Smith and Judi Dench. A movie I've eyed longingly in the past, but known the menfolk would cast me out into the wilderness had I brought it home. But just for me? You betcha! And as I expected, I loved it. I've been a Maggie Smith fan since I first saw her in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, many years ago. And Judi Dench? Classy dame, literally. Heaven would be looking that good when I'm that old.

So, two awesome actresses, a handsome young fellow whom they find washed up, unconscious, on the beautiful Cornish coast, crashing waves and screeching gulls, a crackpot housekeeper, scores of quaint villagers, a mysterious visitor, and violin music. Add it all up and what do you get? Two hours of BLISS. Five mollystars. Check it out.

Totally bummed on my February read, By the Lake, by John McGahern. One hundred and twenty nine pages of yawning before I decided life is too short, so..... chucked it. On to an old Anne Tyler one, Dinner At The Homesick Restaurant.

Finally opened the cans of paint I bought last August, and painted the laundry room. Yellow. Very yellow. Not the shy and delicate yellow conjured up by the name, Pale Cowslip. Which I probably picked as much for the memories as for its pastel charm! Memories of riding bikes out one country road to a particular field ,with the ruins of an old castle in the middle, and a sea of pale, delicate cowslips, begging to be picked..... But its growing on me, and it is clean, and , most importantly, not white!

Biggest February accomplishment, second only to not losing my mind? No, sad to say, I did not finish my Opus Magnus, the Star of Bethlehem quilt for my little grandson. Thought about it a lot, and while thinking, was mindlessly making blocks from four and a half inch squares and two inch strips. Which, as often happens, acquired a life of their own, and which, I brilliantly decided, will become an interim quilt for same little grandson, while his deadbeat granny gets her head around finally finishing the other.

Dug deep into my stash and found the perfect border! Voila! There it is at the top. Couldn't turn it the right way, my skills being non-existant in this department. Beggars can't be choosers---I'm just glad I got it on here at all!Turn your head---the checkerboard should be at the bottom. What do you think? Will he like it?---he'll be three this summer.....

I realise the world has gone ahead and started March without me, but now I'm ready to start running to catch up.

One Sorry, Soggy Cat

Sitting here about an hour ago, catching up on blogs, I suddenly became aware of an unusual sound. Frantic scrabbling. No one in the house but me. Oh-oh. And El Pussygato. Who has been wanting to be outside a lot of late, on lizard patrol around the pool. And spying on birds. And exchanging insults with a squirrel........Went to the door, which I had left open so he could come and go with minimal yowling.

Poked my head out enquiringly into the darkness. And was nearly knocked over by a streak of white, very wet cat, travelling in excess of a hundred miles per hour, through the door, to the safety of the house.

Following his soggy trail, I found him cowering under the bed, eyes like saucers, looking very bedraggled. But he wasn't coming out. Not for me. Not for anybody. Time for some reverse psychology. Who me? Curious about how you got so wet? Whatever gave you that idea?

Soon he came slinking by the couch, giving a wide berth to the sliding door to the pool, casting anxious and distrustful looks at the darkness beyond. I talked to him soothingly, and he let me pick him up and wrap him in a towel and gently pat him dry. The smell of recently -almost -drowned cat is not up there with Channel No. 5. But I snuggled on regardless, and was rewarded soon with the tentative beginnings of a purr. Which grew. And grew. And now he's busy washing himself and trying to recover from the indignity of falling in the pool. And hoping the squirrel wasn't watching.

I may never know how it happened. But he's my good buddy. I'm so glad he figured out how to swim.