Saving The Earth--With Papersticks

Waste not, want not. We didn't think about recycling when I was growing up. We just did it. My mother would as soon have sold her first-born [me] to the tinkers as toss a glass jamjar in the rubbish. They were saved and stored on shelves in the shed out back until she got a notion to make jam or marmalade.

The shed was also where we collected waste paper, in a hemp sack, for the monthly Diocesan Collection. But many of our newspapers, at least in winter time, never reached the shed. We used them to make paper sticks for starting the fire.

Once a week, our dad would gather a pile of old newspapers, and recruit us to help, since we had no distractions such as video games, ipods, dvds or computers. Dad was, at least in his own opinion, the fastest and best paper stick maker in the land. And we all aspired to be as good as, or better, than he was. He had the complacent smile and nimble fingers of a master. The air crackled with competitive tension and the rattle of paper as we fashioned the sticks, with varying degrees of skill. Looking back, I can see now, that making us want to be better at it than he was, was his clever way of getting a bigger pile of paper sticks with a smaller outlay of energy! I don’t believe I ever took his crown away....

It was no good if you rolled the paper too tight or too loose. You had to get it just right. If you didn't fold it exactly in half, you'd run out of paper on one side. And if your last few twists weren't neat and tight, so that when you tucked in the last piece it was snug and secure, the whole thing would come undone.

Our paper sticks were usually made from the Irish Independent, the Limerick Leader or the Cork Examiner. If you were in the know, that would tell you a lot about my parents' politics, and religion--Catholic, of course. We rarely got the Irish Press, and the Irish Times only occasionally, when Dad was feeling especially hoighty-toighty and intellectual. Besides, everyone knew that the Times was only for Protestants! I remember thinking how exotic it must be to be Protestant, one of the Five Percent, and breathe such rarefied air....

Our paper sticks looked like this:


Five or six of them were lined up on the clean grate in the fireplace. Lumps of coal were placed neatly on top. When it was time to light the fire, a match was put to the paper sticks, and as they slowly burned, the coal would catch, and soon there’d be a lovely warm fire, crackling away. Setting the fire was a specialized task, one I was, thankfully, not expected to do! I was glad someone knew how to do it though, since curling up by the fire with a good book was my idea of bliss.

We don't use paper sticks over here, though they'd probably be great for starting the barbecue....But I still recycle newspapers, and junk mail, and even the little paper tags from tea bags! Cereal boxes and all the excessive paper and cardboard wrapping that comes with our food these days also finds it's way to the recycling bin... And, whenever possible, I buy products made from recycled paper. If my head is in the clouds and I forget to bring my cloth bags to the store, I opt for paper rather than plastic, and reuse the bags in the kitchen garbage can.

Waste not, want not........Our parents had it right. We have too much and we take it all for granted. If we were all just a little bit more frugal, as our parents were from necessity, we could reduce pollution, conserve natural resources and leave some of the wonder and beauty of the world for our children and our children's' children to enjoy.

Freedom.....

Fourth of July.

Red, White and Blue.

A day to celebrate freedom.

Time on my hands,

OC far away,

Son off with friends,

Ancient ones visited earlier.

Sympathetic sounds made for the ailments.

Draw them into talking of the old days

And their old country.

How Stalin and communism forced them to flee,

Or end up in Siberia,

For daring to want to be free.


No big barbeque.

No children clamoring for fireworks.

No children. Period. All grown and scattered …..

Fielding calls for fireworks from their own children, perhaps….


Freedom.

To sit in the balmy evening air,

With my book,

Or the paper.

To read about who’s blowing up whom in the world

In the quest for “freedom.”

Free to do the crossword,

Or sudoku.

Or, perchance, to blog…………


Free ,free, free!



But how free am I?

How free are you?

How free are any of us?

I think we are all prisoners of how we think.

Some of us in darker cells than others.

My parents and the nuns taught us many things.

I learned to read and write.

Not to stick my tongue out and not to stare.

I learned to count and do arithmetic.

To say “please” and “thank you”

And not pick my nose.

I learned there was a lot of world out there,

Beyond Galway Bay and the Irish Sea.

America, Europe, Africa, Asia, Australia.

Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Eerie and Superior.

I learned that the world did not begin the day I was born.

And probably won’t end on the day I die.

I learned how to sing and dance,

How to jump rope and play ball.

Latin and French

Algebra and geometry,

And a little trigonometry

[although it hurt my head.]


And every day started with religion class.

The ten commandments.......

Thou shalt not,

Thou shalt not,

Thou shalt not.

The four gospels,

The seven deadly sins.


But no science.

No biology.

We might have to see pictures of naked people.

We couldn’t have that.

It might lead to impure thoughts...

Or occasions of sin……

No chemistry, no physics.

Because God made the world.

In six days, remember?

We couldn’t have people believing

It might have been gasses, or molecules or big bangs.


Critical thinking was not on the curriculum.

Because the nuns didn’t want us to think.

Thinking was dangerous.

Don’t ask awkward questions.

If they couldn’t explain it, it was probably

A matter of “Faith and morals.”

We would just have to believe.

Faith, Hope and Charity---the first one of these.

To do otherwise would make you a heretic.

Get you excommunicated.

Secure your place in hell.


So here I sit, in the fading light,

The air a-crackle with fireworks,

And the raucous din of insects,

In a free country [the Current Occupant’s efforts notwithstanding.]

Where the nuns have no sway.

Where a person is free to think as she pleases.

To bend, and maybe even break, the bars of the prison cell,

Fashioned in her youth,

And let the light shine in.


Free to question, and

To wonder, out loud,

Without being called a heretic,

Or being excommunicated,

Or sent to Siberia…….

Shall We Dance?

Dream a Little Quilty Dream....

Every time I read my favourite Quilt magazine, I take an extra-long look at the end of the featured patterns, where they show how the quilt would look in a completely different colour combination. I stop, I linger, and I drool. Laura Boehnke earns her living, feeds her family, and keeps the wolf from the door by testing new patterns for the magazine and working them up in various colour combinations.

"She tests every pattern we publish to make sure the instructions are accurate. Her ability to see optional colourways for a pattern makes Laura's work popular with our readers."

Yes. They PAY her to do that!

What I want to know is---Where was I when they were handing out jobs like that? Was I pre-occupied with trying to coax extremely-bored-with-P.E. teenage girls into some semblance of physical exertion? Or helping enthusiastic young mothers teach their howling babies to swim? Or maybe those jobs were on offer while I was busy wiping--- bottoms-noses-tears? Another case of life getting in the way.........

So, since I'm not racing off every morning to my high powered magazine job, I content myself with..........volunteering to select the block for our quilt guild's Block of the Month. Churn dash and nine patches and log cabins and stars are nice classic blocks, but the block of the month is a chance to try something different, something more challenging, something you might balk at making thirty six of, but ONE? Come on, it won't take long, and I promise to give very clear instructions! You pay fifty cents for the instructions and hand in the finished block at the next month's meeting for a chance to win ALL of them. If you win you have the makings of a quilt---and you only had to sew ONE block. Sweet deal, no?

But many of the ladies are elderly. Some have weak hearts. They don't want excitement, and they know what they like. And what they like is "quick and easy."
High-falutin' ideas from whippersnappers are not always greeted with wild enthusiasm.

Hence my dilemma.

Since what I like is adventure, challenge and excitement.[Don't forget, we're talking quilting here.]
I thought about socking them with this,


but didn't want to be beaten about the head and neck.....which the combination of hand work AND circular piecing might incite some of our members to....

This seemed like an unusual little gem,




until I found out [personal experience!] how easy it was to sew together ass-backwards.......


Then I found this, similar but simpler, version.


And liked it so much I made three.



When I ran it by She-who-must-approve, however, she thought it too small at 7" square, and could I make it larger, say 12"or 14"?

So, back to the drawing board, where, having no luck finding a compass, high or low, I nearly strangled myself trying to draw arcs of circles with a primitive contraption contrived from a pin and a pencil and enough thread to hang myself. Don't ask.
Enough to say my strengths don't lie in drafting.

But even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while, and soon I devised a cunning plan. I would take the triangular template from the 7" version and extend the two long sides.... It worked.....I went from feeling very frustrated to smugly patting myself on the back.

Passed it out at the guild meeting last week with the advice to stitch at least the middle by hand. Fingers crossed I won't get any irate phone calls.....

I'd still love that job! Eventually Ms. Boehnke will want to retire to the country to raise rabbits and string beans, won't she? If I send in my resume now, they'll have it in hand when she steps down ....and I can step up..... to dreamland!

Nothing Exploded.......

I slept soundly last night and dreamt that He who barfs on quilts had snagged a smelly, mangy looking rodent, and it was being dragged behind him everywhere he went because it was, literally, hooked onto his claw and he couldn’t shake it off! Except for when he takes it into his head to barf on a quilt, he is a very fastidious creature, so where that weird dream came from is one for Freud-for-Felines.

Anyway.

You want to know, don’t you, did I open The Box?

I did.

At first light.

And peeked in at the sleekness of that shiny new machine.

And called for The Bean to come and help, or offer moral support at least, but, only if he could do it without yelling.

Don’t get me wrong. We are fairly civilized around here. But the male contingent, in its various manifestations, is singularly impatient [and therefore predisposed to yelling] when faced with stupid questions and asinine assumptions, those being particular talents of mine, at least in realms technological.

He was like a lamb.

Something happens in the male brain, I am convinced, when a man is faced with a box of plugs and wires and new fangled gadgets. Something loosely equivalent to what happens to me when I see a tiny, innocent, newborn baby…….His eyes shine brighter, his cheeks flush, his pulse quickens, and he will suppress his natural aversion to fools and even his instinct to yell at them, if said fools will only let him be the one to figure out all the mysteries.

I know they’re not really mysteries, but I’d be a big fat liar if I pretended to be interested in the mechanics of it all. I just want it to work. Kind of like cars. Very handy for getting around. I’ve been under hoods. I’ve heard men jabbering on, about how all those pistons, and these fuel lines, and that battery, and those gauges make the car go. And it all makes my eyes turn dull and glassy, my skin turn grey and my hair fall out. And they begin to sound like the droning voice of the teacher on Charlie Brown. Then weeks later they’ll remind me that it had all been explained to me in excruciating, mind-numbing detail, and don’t I remember for pity’s sake?? You mean my efforts to look interested and intelligent were so successful you actually thought I was listening??

And you all, with your encouraging words, were right.

Just plug it in, you said.
So we did.

And nothing exploded.

One significant thing at a time, the wise Tanya advised---God, how I wish she lived next door! And one has to have virus protection, and internet security---are they one and the same? You see what we’re dealing with here?

So I remind myself to breathe, and if all else fails, go stitch a bit.

And remember to clip the cat’s claws………..

Will It Explode If I Touch It?

I had just put the coffee on this morning and was doing a little stitching---I’m in maniacal stitching mode these days---when the doorbell rang. Which necessitated a mad gallop to the bedroom, shedding sleeping garments en route and leaping into shorts and shirt, before opening the door, with my best, unruffled “Oh-I’ve-been-dressed-for-HOURS” air and accepting THIS


from the delivery man .

Have a good look.

Can you guess what’s inside?

I recently had a birthday. A big one. The kind that moves you out of one decade and into another. To mark the occasion the OC gave me a heart attack. Well, almost, when I came out of the den on the morning of my birthday, determined not to mope, and ran right into his smiling face and the bunch of roses he was clutching, in the living room. Which wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, be grounds for heart failure, except that I thought he was thousands of miles away in the frozen north! It was a very pleasant heart attack.

And my sister got me that brown box up there.

Have you guessed yet? Doesn’t take a rocket scientist……Even I know what it is.

He-who-barfs-on-quilts gave the box a thorough inspection. From every possible angle. Just to be sure no mice were being smuggled into his domain, don’t you know. Having satisfied himself that the box was rodent-free, he returned to the arduous tasks of washing himself, and quilt supervision.

And then it was my turn to cautiously circle The Box. I thought I might poke it experimentally from a safe distance with a broom handle……Then I thought I’d better hide it, in case The Bean saw it and tried to pressure me into opening it before I was good and ready. So, at the moment, it is safe in my closet.

Unopened.

Can you believe my sister? She got tired of hearing me moan about our current, almost dead dinosaur, and disagreed with the OC, who can’t imagine what I could possibly want with a computer of my own. He might have a point. The world would be a safer place if I stuck to pen and paper.

The truth is I’m terrified of that box. Just knowing Rise’d do something like that for me is present enough……..What I need is a crew of Rise, Lily and myself. We could do it together. Without any yelling. I keep telling myself that dumber people than me have figured out how to set up a computer. But I do wish it was as straightforward as, a toaster, say, or a sewing machine, or a mixer, or an electric toothbrush. If there was just one plug I’d be all set.

If you could look under the desk here, you’d understand my terror. There’s a thingamajig with GO written on it. It has a small wire plugged in one end of it and a thicker wire in the other end, and a blue light glowing to let the world know it’s doing whatever it is it’s supposed to be doing. Then there’s the long yoke that says PANAMAX, that has six, I kid you not--SIX more wires of various thicknesses plugged into it, and not one, but two little green lights glowing……And I have not the foggiest notion what any of those wires are for, or why, for heaven’s sake, there are so many of them!

I think I’ll go to sleep now. Sometimes I dream my way out of problems. And even if I don’t, maybe I’ll summon the gumption to at least open The Box in the morning!

Little Blister

Anything more than fifty years ago sounds like a L-O-N-G time ago. And yet I can remember June 21st.1954 with amazing clarity. At least part of it. The part where I had the temerity to leave my desk in Miss McCarthy's Senior Infants class and walk, unbidden, to the teacher's desk. Because I had very exciting news to impart.

"Miss McCarthy," I said, "I have a new baby sister!"


I obviously thought that a person with such stupendous news would be excused for breaking the rule against leaving her desk without permission.
As it turned out, I was wrong.

"Molly Bawn," said my teacher crisply, "Go back to your desk at once!"

I must have stood there, stupidly, stammering, and blushing with shame, as I tried to absorb the fact that a new baby sister, while earth shaking and life changing for me, was of no interest to Miss McCarthy.

Maybe she was having a bad day.

Or maybe she'd had a fight with her boyfriend.

Or maybe she'd slept through the Be Nice To Little Children 101 class in teacher training college.

Or maybe she was the incarnation of the devil.

Whatever she was, I got through the remainder of Senior Infants--it was late June so summer holidays were at hand, and in September I'd be in First Class, one of the Big Kids up in the Primary School,leaving the likes of Miss McCarthy and ear-pulling, cheek-pinching Sister Mary Gillen to traumatise a new batch of Babies and Senior Infants!



Since then I have often been wrong, but I don't think being wrong has ever been so devastating as in that moment in Senior Infants when I was just six years old.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I don't remember any more about the incident. I was a shy child. The incident did not make me any less so, of that I am sure. I had proof positive that my life was of no consequence to someone who loomed as large in my life as the teacher I spent my days with.

I would have been interested to meet Miss McCarthy as a grownup. Would I have liked her? I think not. Little incidents reveal a person's character, and even if it were not me she'd been so mean to, I would despise a person who could stomp all over the trust of a child, and then grind her heel in it!

Miss McCarthy's reaction to my news could not diminish my delight in having a baby sister for long though. I already had a baby brother. Boring. I was ready for someone like me. I needed reinforcements. Every afternoon mum bundled her up in the pram and put her out in the garden for her daily dose of sunshine, or at least fresh air. My friends and I could peek in at her and coo at her, but were given dire warnings about what would happen to us if any harm came to her due to high jinks on our part.

Six years is a gaping gap. She wasn't quite ready that summer to ride bicycles with me, or toss a rubber ball endlessly off the kitchen wall, or go exploring down Barry's field, or play jump rope with me. We tolerated each other and co-existed more or less peacefully throughout our childhood. In our teens she became the bane of my life. If I had a nice piece of clothing she would inevitably borrow it and incur my wrath, which didn't scare her in the least.

But the full import of that day in June, back in the fifties, has only become obvious in the last decade or so. It was the day my best friend was born.



Happy Birthday, Rise!

Foto Friday

I wasn't alone down by the river...............

Down By The River Side

If you’re going to sew anyway, where would you rather do it?---at home with the cat, in the cool shade of the house? Or down by the river, in the shade of a tree? If you grew up in Ireland, where the slightest glimmer of sunshine or the merest hint of warm weather cause the natives to kick up their heels, down tools and go cavorting gleefully into the great outdoors, the decision is simple.

I’ve been working on some hand piecing since I finished the star quilt. I hadn’t exactly planned on starting a new project. But the universe decided I needed to make it, so without asking my brain for permission, my hands started cutting and stitching. If consulted, my brain would have had to say

“No. Have you looked at the pile of unfinished symphonies in the closet? No, no, NO!”

But since the brain was left out of the decision making process, all that negativity was avoided.

The hands have been busy. A little every day. I’d forgotten how much I love “handwerk.” Just me and the needle, the thread and the fabric……And my mind wide open for traipsing across the plains and plateaus of LIFE.

You look at a woman sitting by the river, stitching. And you think you’re seeing a woman sitting by the river, stitching.

But you’re not.

You’re seeing a woman on a journey, a journey through the “caverns of her mind.” A woman tentatively picking her way through a minefield of intimate relationships, stepping gingerly lest she cause an explosion, and, at times, casting caution to the winds and speaking her mind---a dangerous habit. A woman trying to understand why, when all the players speak the same language, it is SO difficult to communicate.

Because egos are involved.
Expectations are involved.
Personalities are involved.
And dreams.

And each player’s personality, each player’s expectations, and each player’s dreams are different. Oy.

Suddenly that stitcher by the river, that dreamer, that luster after peace and harmony….. leaps from her reverie in the grass back to the real, sun-dappled world of the river bank.

With a loud, indignant yelp.

Feeling a sharp sting on her sandalled foot, she looked down and discovered she was sitting in the middle of basic training for an army of ants.


Nevertheless, progress has been made, the state of the world has been pondered. Conclusions have been drawn, that we’re a lot like the ants, running in circles, wringing our hands, agonizing over the twists and turns of our petty, insignificant lives, when Life, in his big, agricultural, hob-nailed boots can stomp all over us at any moment and obliterate us. I’m just hoping he lets me linger by the river ‘til I’m finished my stitching.

Running Away To Join The Circus....Or Somesuch

To have and to hold,
For better or for worse,
For richer or for poorer,
In sickness and in health......Got it. No problem.

I know it was thirty seven years ago and I know my memory ain't what it used to be BUT---

I don't remember ANYTHING being mentioned on that fateful, long ago day about lawn mower maintenance,
or greasy spark plugs buried in tractor bowels and covered in black, oily gunk,
or fuel filters,
or "How many cylinders?" [How the hell would I know?]

Isn't that one of the reasons we promise to love and cherish, 'til death do us part, a person with a beard, who belches with impunity, thinks flatulence is funny, possibly even snores? Specifically so we won't have to deal with that crap?

I thought I was marrying a man; that I would be his cherished helpmate, his confidante, his friend........It all started out so romantically......with candlelight and wine, laughter and soft music, and the whole spark plug and mower maintenance issue was cleverly airbrushed in the folds of the magic.

But then, with frightening speed, you find yourself having the birthday that starts with a Six and ends with an Oh---Oh my! Harsh reality sets in. And you realise that you are actually married to The Man's house, and to The Man's big garden, and to The Man's garage---full of tools, many of which have not had their protective dust coat disturbed in decades.

You become the scary lady before whom spiders and daddy-long-legs flee in terror when she ventures into their elaborate web cities in the dark, infrequently visited corners of that same garage, in search of some tool she knows The Man owns but damned if she knows where he keeps it.

I had an epiphany today when I came inside, dripping sweat and smudged with spark-plug-grease and tears.

I don't want to be a house-sitter;
an inept and grease smeared changer of spark plugs;
for a lawn mower that sputters and inexplicably dies;
Don't want to be the wielder of wrenches,
the fretter over pool chemicals,
the glassy eyed wanderer of Home Depot aisles, searching searching for fuel filters and spark plugs, and oh! don't forget the replacement sprinkler head!
Don't want to be the administrator of last rites to terminally ill computers.

If The Man is never here.

I want my man back, and if he's too busy to return soon I may have to pack my toothbrush and my sewing projects in my backpack and hitch hike out of here to parts unknown.

Living In Bucket In Palm Tree...Wish You Were Here!

Can you stand to read one more post about birds? It’s what’s going on around here these days. You cannot step outside without hearing “Cheep, cheep, cheep” from every corner. The nests are so well camouflaged that, though I can clearly hear the babies, I cannot see them. Given the season that is in it and her own personal, feather-raising adventures, I invited my friend, Mme. Dove, to do a guest post today, in which she will recount for you the disastrous turn events took in her life, and the lives of her children this past weekend. Here she is………….


"We've been living in the trees out behind MB's house for a couple of years now, my mate and I. This spring we found the best location ever for our nest, between the fronds of a palm tree not far from the house. The fronds provided shade and privacy, and their sharp barbs ensured that Mrs.Hussy Squirrel, and her cheeky, unruly children wouldn't be poking their inquisitive noses into our nest. Not being a place easily slithered to, we also thought our eggs would be safe there from snakes. All in all an ideal location. Monsieur Dove and I got busy. We gathered twigs and Spanish moss from nearby trees, and soon had a cozy place in which to raise this year's nestlings. In due time I laid the eggs and we took turns sitting on them to keep them warm. We were so proud of our sweet babies when they finally hatched!

And THEN, just when they were within a week of starting their flight training, along came The Bean. The Bean, in case you were not aware, is MB's son. He pretty much single-handedly takes care of the garden, but this particular day he had help. His Dad, known in blogging circles as the OC, was home from the still-chilly north for a surprise weekend visit.It was a beautiful day and they had taken it into their heads to do some drastic pruning. Which was none of my business, of course..... Humans will do what humans feel moved to do..... At least not until The Bean approached my tree, brandishing some lethal-looking loppers. I tell you, I almost had a heart attack. My children are so quiet and well behaved, he had no way of knowing they were nearby. I fluttered close, but to no avail. Before I could blink, my precious babies and our lovingly constructed nest went crashing to the ground. The Bean spotted my lovelies immediately and bent in consternation to pick them up. He cradled them so gently, while my poor heart throbbed in my breast.

"Please don't hurt them," I silently pleaded.

He looked around and saw me sitting on the wall, watching helplessly.


He murmured something softly to me and reached for a little bucket on the ground nearby.


Ever so carefully he eased the remnants of our nest, along with my two bewildered babies into the bucket. They made me proud, they sat so still. As I watched anxiously from my perch on the wall, The Bean reached up into the palm tree and wedged the bucket securely in place.


Then he and the OC looked expectantly from it to me, talking softly to me all the while. Though I longed to go and comfort my little ones I thought it best to wait a while.....What will our neighbours think when they see me sitting in a white plastic bucket where our lovely comfy nest used to be? They might think it's the very latest in modern dove condos! Although it is a bit primitive. It doesn't look as nice as our traditional nest at all, but what do humans know about weaving twigs and fur and feathers together to form a safe and comfortable home for the likes of us? What they lacked in nest-building skill though, they made up for in trying to make amends for their clumsiness.....Most importantly,and to my great relief, junior and his little sister seem none the worse for the mishap, and I'm hoping we'll be right on schedule to start flight training in the next few days."


Afterword by Molly, [who always has the last word, at least around here.]
I wondered about Monsieur Dove. He was nowhere in evidence when Cyclone Bean descended on his family's nesting quarters. Was he some kind of absentee/deadbeat dad, the kind who stick around just long enough to donate their DNA, decide that the long hours and emotional drainage of child rearing is not for the debonair likes of them, and wander off in search of adventure and fulfillment elsewhere? Mama Dove certainly looked like she was coping with her disaster all alone.

But this morning, when I went outside early to check on the residents of the world's ugliest bird nest, I found, not only Mama Dove's head peeking up from the white plastic rim, but Papa Dove's too! Photographic evidence below.



So he's not a deadbeat dad! He has not absented himself! He's right here pulling his weight. Maybe he was away on family business? And now he's back to be the chief flight instructor? Although, when I was learning to drive, my dad, all breezy and confident, drove me down to the Dock Road for my first lesson. Half an hour later, chastened and trembling, he drove me home and handed the keys, mutely, to my mother......Which just goes to show that hair on your chest and a deep bass do not necessarily make you the best choice for driving/flight instructor. So now the whole Dove family is reunited. As we watch those fledglings learn to fly we'll be feeling a little parental pride ourselves.

Note to the worried: Do not fret. He-Who-Barfs-On-Quilts is on lockdown until all these babies are airborne!

Late breaking update: Out to have another peek around sundown tonight, ever-present camera in hand. Junior [below] did not like the flash and fluttered off like an old pro to another tree!


Little sister was not so brave. She needs more time. Maybe she'll take to the air tomorrow.....



Meanwhile, these older fledglings were spotted relaxing in the


bushes in front of the house.....And from the bathroom window this morning I spotted another patient dove mama sitting in another nest in another tree at the side of the house. As I mentioned earlier, you can't step outside these days without hearing a chorus of "Cheep, cheep, cheep!"

"Soft Day, Missus"

“Soft day, Missus,” farmers would greet my grandmother, lifting their caps, as we clopped along to the village in the pony and trap. A “soft day” in Ireland is a rainy one. The greeting is like a benediction though. There is no complaint in the words. They know the rain is necessary. Besides, how do you think they keep those forty shades of green in top shape for the tourists?

“Soft day my arse!” I can almost hear my sister snort.
“’Tis her head that’s gone soft on her. Romanticising this bloody weather that has my heart scalded, and her sitting like Lady Muck in the Florida sunshine!”

Snorting sisters aside, I know whereof I speak. Because…..drum roll please…..We had a lovely soft day HERE today!

The “gentle rain from heaven” has been caressing us all day. Welcome, not only because we’re parched for a drop of moisture, but also because we’re on the threshold of hurricane season and wondering what meteorological atrocities the Weatherman In The Sky has in store for us this summer.

When I returned from the Cave of the Ancients this evening I was loath to go inside, so went for a stroll among the trees out back. The air was soft and misty. At first it seemed quiet but then my ears tuned to the raucous ribbiting of rain-thirsty frogs. As I came back towards the house, a couple of birds started making an awful racket, screeching at me, and swooping close. If they’d just kept quiet I’d never have known they had babies nearby. They made the same racket last night when they saw our Great White Hunter [Casper, the recently disgraced-for-barfing-on-my-quilt cat] on lizard patrol [wonder if there was chewed up lizard in the ignominious puddle?]out around the pool. They couldn’t tell that he couldn’t get to them from there. All they knew was there was a four legged predator on the prowl. Between the flapping and the squawking it didn’t take a genius to understand their anxiety.

But I saw no sign of a nest. What I did see, as I strolled slowly by some bushes, was that little fellow up there, all by his lonesome. Might have been his first time out of the nest. Inexperienced enough to know no fear, he just cocked his head and looked up at me, seeming to listen intently as I crooned at him, while mom and dad had conniptions on the roof.

I ran inside to get my camera, almost expecting they’d have whisked him away when I came out again, but no. He was still there, waiting to have his picture taken! Given the soft day that was in it and the fast-fading light, I was lucky to get the shot. And then I scarpered so mom and dad could get on with it.

Here’s wishing you some “soft days” to soothe your soul.

Not Talking to the Cat

Most Likely Suspect


Washing cat barf out of the largest quilt I've ever made was not on my to-do list today. Digging a certain unfinished quilt project out of the closet in the spare room was. Imagine my chagrin then, when I went trotting in there and saw a crusty, dried up puddle of cat barf in the middle of the bed. And not JUST in the middle of the bed. In the middle of the QUILT that was covering the bed. A disgusting puddle of yellow cat-stomach liquid crowned with a hairball, surrounded by half-digested cat food.

I was not happy.

Some rules are no-brainers. If you want to experience Molly-love, it goes without saying that you should not barf on the quilts. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. The OC is aware of this rule. At least I assume that he is since he has never, not even once, barfed on one of my quilts. The fact that he is, in fact, a rocket scientist probably gives him an edge over the cat. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him barf anywhere since the long-gone days of his exuberant youth. Speaking of which, we still have one exuberant youth in residence who has, on occasion, overestimated the tolerance of his stomach for certain liquid refreshments. But, mindful of the above-average need for Molly-love [and mollycoddling!] when one is feeling poorly, he has always managed to avoid voiding his stomach contents on a quilt. Wise move.

The cat is less wise. There are ample tiled surfaces around here on which one could, if so moved, barf. I will not be pleased one way or the other. Barf on tile is a minor annoyance. Easily mopped up. Barf on carpet is a pain in the petoot. But barfing on a quilt is a major infraction which will result in me giving the cold shoulder to the barfer for a prolonged period of time, equal to, or possibly longer than the time it takes me to clean up the mess.

That's why, today, I'm not talking to the cat.

Most days we are on cordial terms. If he's not happy with the amount and timeliness of his feedings, all he has to do is talk to me. And I take care of it. I'm agreeable like that.

And if his litter box is not cleared promptly of objectionable material, a word in my ear will set the world to fastidious rights. I'm agreeable like that too.

But barfing on a quilt moves you to the other side of the fence. To enemy territory. You become Felinus Barfus Non Grata. You might be made of stone for all the attention you get. Your most piteous yowling falls on deaf ears. Your efforts to ingratiate yourself are spurned. Doesn't she understand that when your stomach is in a knot you need the comfort of a quilt under your tail while you expel the cause of your discomfort from your interior? There's no comfort in a cold tiled floor.....And so she's been ignoring me all day. Oh sure, she fed me. But beyond that--- emotional starvation. No companionable chat. No sweet nothings in my ear, no crooning about what a great fellow I am and where would she be without me? None of that. Just grunting, and gnashing of teeth, and quilt hauling to bathtub, and splashing of water therein, and vigorous scrubbing and---could it be?? cat-cursing under her breath?? Not a blessed word thrown my way all day. Pray that her ire will run its course and we'll be on speaking terms tomorrow!

"The Lady Who Runs The Vacuum Cleaner"

Mothers Day? What was that? When I was growing up, you didn't have to worry that you’d forget and she'd have her feelings hurt. There were other, more pressing things to worry about in the fifties. People were still adjusting to the upheavals caused by the war. It wasn’t ‘til I came to America that I learned there was a special day in May for remembering and honouring mothers. And even though life and relationships are fraught with complicated, not easily pigeonholed feelings, this day is all about flowers, and candy, cloying sentiment and warm fuzzies. But, as I see it, if you don’t love and honour your mother every day you live, one day in May will hardly compensate.

Reading my history notes last night, I came upon Garrison Keillor’s column. Which is one of the reasons I don’t just throw old newspapers in the recycling bin----I might miss one of his gems. How can you not love a man who could write something like this:

“Mothers were, at one time, young women with Possibilities who might have taken a different route and become glamorous and powerful figures in size two dresses and instead found themselves cleaning up excrement and jiggling colicky babies to get them to stop screaming. They hardly ever get to London anymore or have time to read James Joyce. They sit down to dinner with adults and feel brain-dead. A bouquet of flowers hardly seems compensation enough. How about a million dollars and a house in the south of France?"

Do we, in fact, stop being who we used to be as soon as we give birth? Do we become “just the lady who runs the vacuum cleaner?" I think that happened to me. I went through the motions, I cooked, I cleaned, I loved, I comforted, I consoled, I rejoiced, I burst with pride, I ached,I propped my eyes open with toothpicks, I laughed, I sobbed, but a part of me was somewhere up in the attic, wrapped in mothballs, covered in dust.

Or do we become someone better? I went up to the attic a few years ago and rummaged around ‘til I found that old self. I dusted her off and aired her out to get rid of that camphor smell. When I unfolded her and shook her out I found she still had the long legs---BUT---not a varicose vein in sight! Her hair was brown and wavy and her face smooth and unlined. Sigh. I found her a little naive, but I liked her a lot and thought she still had possibilities.

So, if you're finding your mum a little boring, slap yourself, and realise she used to be a real person before you came along and she devoted herself to teaching you how to fly instead of learning herself. She used to have dreams of her own, but now all her dreams are for you. She used to sleep at night, but now she can't close her eyes until she hears you opening the door at midnight so she knows you’re safe. She used to be able to kiss the hurts and make them better, but now, she has to stand aside and let you deal with the slings and arrows all by yourself. She would like to sweep you into her arms and make the world go away, but it would be undignified. She has to trust that all those flying lessons are about to click and you’ll soar off into the blue all by yourself.

Meanwhile, if she's still alive she'd probably get a big thrill if you called her, or, gasp, wrote her a letter. The postal service, world wide, is still one of the best bargains out there. Use it!
And if she has already gone to her hard earned reward, Plant a flower in your garden, or in a pot on the windowsill and call it by her name. She'll know.

Happy Mothers Day everyone!

Where, Oh Where Has My Little Sis Gone?

"Oh Where, Oh Where Can She Be?"

When we were young, and still the centers of our own universes, my sister and I wrote letters. Dutiful, sisterly letters. It wasn’t that we fancied we had anything beyond parentage and nationality in common. We didn’t. The gaping chasm of six years between us blinded us to any common interests. But we did stay in touch. Especially after I got married and blithely betook myself to the other side of the world. Leaving her, at the tender age of sixteen, to cope with “situations” on the home front as best she could. Truth be told, it never occurred to me that problems in the grown-up world might be any of our concern……. She was young. She was brainy. She was gorgeous. If I thought about it at all, I figured she’d be fine. Besides, we came from stoic, taciturn types and if she wasn’t fine she’d keep it to herself. Not to mention that there was another tall, gangly, taciturn type-in-the-making lurking in the shadows who could be relied upon to take her away to the seaside with her bucket and shovel if things started to get out of hand.

Then along came the children, and the letters dwindled to a truly miserable, barely discernible trickle.

We were up to our oxthers in poopy diapers and runny noses, pink eye and ear infections, PTA meetings and doctor’s appointments, sneakers and wellies, schoolbags and lunchboxes, supervising homework and helping in classrooms, living and loving, laughing and lamenting------turning into grown-ups------on opposite sides of the world.

When we finally came up for air, the world had changed. We’d changed from girls into women who were mothers, the boys we’d married had turned into men who were fathers, the babies we’d borne were no longer darling extensions of ourselves but- gasp- individuals with ideas and aspirations of their own. We’d been over-worked and underpaid and seriously sleep deprived for so long, we didn’t know if we could survive in, and adjust to, this strange new order.

In between the great gaping gaps in communication, we’d been thrown together by the deaths of, first, our dad, and ten years later, our mum, may they rest in peace. And two overseas assignments which took us respectively to Germany and Belgium, which if you’ll look at your atlas, you’ll see are MUCH closer to Ireland than, say, California, or Montana! And I gradually came to realize that I had a treasure, right there, under my nose, masquerading as my no-account, bothersome kid sister.

So, you can see, e-mail and the internet came along at exactly the right time for us. After we overcame such technicalities as my distrust of new-fangled gadgets and anything electronic…….

And then, the icing on the cake, blogging! I was in heaven when she finally caved and started a blog of her own. Now I could tap in regularly to what she was thinking, not just the tailored-for-me content of her e-mails. It doesn’t get much better than last November’s NabloPoMo, when I was guaranteed a Rise fix every day for an entire month…..

And now all’s quiet on the Notimetodonothing front. Those old dinosaurs are turning into fossils. And one asks oneself

“Where did she go?” and

“Doesn’t she have anything more to say?” and

“Hey! Get back here---you’d just got me hooked!” and

“Don’t trifle with me---post something already!”

It’s all due, I am sad to report, to a death in the family. The sudden and unexpected demise of Rise’s computer. It was so young. Barely two years ago it came to live with her in it’s shiny new box; so promising…... so lovely…...and such a lemon. Those in the know opine that it must have been a Friday afternoon/Monday morning job.

The computer specialists have been to her house. They've examined the patient. They've poked. They've prodded. They've probed. They've stood around the sickbed, stroking their beards, and have sadly shaken their wise and grizzled heads and pronounced it well and truly a goner.

As you can imagine, Rise is distraught at her loss. She even succumbed for a while to a mysterious virus, and took to her bed. But, occasionally, her daughter’s computer was left unguarded, and she snuck on there and snooped around, and subsequently wailed to me that it’s DEADSVILLE in the blogosphere of late, and someone needs to do something about it! She has plans to procure a new machine and when she does, watch out! She’ll come roaring back, with knobs on.

This Day Will Not Come Again....

Don’t buy me diamonds, though I’m partial to pearls!
Don’t feed me caviar, I’d rather have---squirrels---

[well, maybe not quite, but I'm being creative...]

Don’t send me orchids or lilies or roses.
If you love me just take me where wild flowers growses.


Walk with me ‘neath trees of fantastical shapeses,


And wander in fields on erratical traipses.



For music we’ll tune in to buzzing of beeses
And soft moaning whispers of breezes in treeses……



Okay, so I'll never be Poet Laureate, but I seized the day! Yesterday's gone; tomorrow's a closed book, but today I was happy, here, now, on a morning walk, with flowers and trees, chirping birds, sunshine, buzzing bees, and a boy, jogging in the green stillness who loves all these…..

Lessons From A Quilt

Ta-Dah! That's a Molly Bawn drum roll. An insipid little squawk I realise, but it marks a momentous occasion. I finally finished "the star quilt" for my Little Grandson. I'll be accepting pats on the back at the end of this post! I started this quilt when LG was born. This summer he will be four. Yes, I am suitably ashamed, though, in my defense, it should be noted that I did make him an interim, machine-stitched quilt, so he wouldn't be quiltless!

But now it's really finished! It's even in the mail. At the post office yesterday, the man behind the counter asked if I'd like to insure my package. Hummph! I've heard some horror stories of quilts made by friends being lost in the mail. For items made by hand the only compensation one gets is replacement of the materials used! How would you even begin to put a price on something stitched with love for a small boy, son of someone who was once your small boy? I decided to take my chances.

Four years is a long time. In my grandson's case, it's a lifetime! In that lifetime, making this quilt for him, I learned some lessons, some of them quilt related, some totally not.

I learned that---

I love figuring out new patterns and techniques.

That piecing goes quickly for me.

That things slow down at the layering stage,

And barely crawl at the basting stage. Yawn!

That even the most daunting journey/intimidating quilt is made one step/stitch at a time.

That there’s good reason to use black batting on a dark quilt---what was I thinking?

That a black quilt and a white cat should not be left in the same room together,

Because, the white cat is fatally attracted to the black quilt.

That masking tape is a white-cat-owning-quilter’s best friend.

That nobody calls you at four a.m. to give you good news.

That only a lunatic would do this much hand quilting on a quilt for a small child.

That by the time all the hand quilting is done the child will no longer be small.

That what I have to say is not always as important as listening to what someone else has to say.

That I should never say “It’s almost finished,” because, the quilting gods/goddesses will hear and punish me for excessive optimism.

If my mouth is closed my foot cannot be inserted therein.

If I didn’t blog I’d get a lot more quilting done.

If I didn’t quilt I’d get a lot more blogging done.

If I didn’t blog or quilt I’d read more.

If I didn’t blog, quilt or read, my house would be much cleaner.

If I didn’t do any of the above, I’d have to shoot myself, and then it wouldn’t matter.



Lest the quilt seem too staid for a small boy, I used this playful fabric for the backing. Since I love how Erma Bombeck compares children to kites, it seemed fitting. What I would like more than anything is to see my son's face when he sees the quilt. It's taken me so long, he thinks it's just a story I tell, this Star quilt, a figment of my imagination.

But it is no figment.

It's REAL and it's FINISHED!

"Lemon Tree, Very Pretty..."

Friday morning, dark and early, an hour down the deserted road to the airport, we learn the flight’s been cancelled. His attempt to return to the frozen north foiled, the OC cannot help but grin at the prospect of an extra day in La-La land. Land of parental dotage, confused and confusing wife, offspring irreverent and obstinately un-humble, choruses of groans when all you want to watch on television is golf and soccer --- enough to make a guy pine for a cold and lonely hermitage in the north, were it not for the possibility of one more round of golf in the balmy sunshine, an afternoon nap, perhaps; maybe even a little puttering in the garden…..

Lazy, lolling-around afternoon, no rush, no urgency. Then out of nowhere, a wild hair. He must prune the lemon tree. Never mind that the targeted branches are half way to heaven. He will not be deterred.

“The Bean will do it!” I protest. The Bean, in his opinion, does not approach such undertakings with the proper degree of enthusiasm or gravity.

“I will not push you around in your wheelchair when you fall and break your already dodgy back!” I threaten.

You've heard of “pissing into the wind?”

Yeah.

He was going to do what he was going to do.

The ladder was extricated from the garage and hauled to the hapless tree. The necessary, lethal-looking surgical tools were located. From there it was all go. Up he went and commenced with the lower branches. Dutifully I stood below, collecting them as they fell, burying my nose in their intoxicating perfume before carting them off to the tree branch cemetery at the back. Even as he climbed higher, and stretched more precariously, he seemed solidly planted. I was at the ready to catch him as he fell. Rigghht…….Having long ago lost my taste for “holding the flashlight,” I wandered off.....

A cardinal was lecturing us, loudly, from a nearby tree, possibly warning us not to darken the door of his nest. I fetched my camera, hoping for a picture of his piercing redness and cheeky stance. He led me a merry dance though, flying over the roof to a tree on the other side, then, as soon as I’d followed and found him, back again.

Entertaining myself thusly, I rounded the corner of the house and came upon this fine fellow,


enjoying an evening repast on the front lawn.
He froze.
I froze.
Very slowly I lowered myself onto the path. Nary a twitch, but he kept his eye on me. I inched closer,lowering myself further until belly met path, the better to get a tremor-free shot. He was very co-operative and held perfectly still while I clicked, but seeing that I wasn’t going away, he gathered up his fluffy cottontail and bounced off into the bushes.

The OC, meanwhile, dodgy back unscathed, descended from the ladder to admire his handiwork. Gathering up the remaining branches, I murmured admiringly at the lovely job he’d done. I showed him the fruits of my grovelling about on the front path.
He smiled and echoed my murmuring.

And so it goes.

Saturday morning, at the same obscenely early, dark and quiet hour, he went winging north, to the cold but peaceful hermitage. And here am I, wondering again exactly what I’m doing here…..

When besieged by doubt there’s only one cure---Start a new project.


Which is exactly what I did.

Hand piecing, my lovelies. ‘Tis good for the soul.

"The Tedium Of Decrepitude"

I just read Anna Quindlen’s latest offering “Good Dog. Stay.” All eighty two pages of it. Thirty one pages of print, fifty one of photos. Not exactly a daunting read. But she got me thinking. Pulitzer prize and best selling novels notwithstanding, she is never intimidating. She could be my sister, my next door neighbour, or me. She writes about the plain topics that concern ordinary people like us.

In this instance it is the putting down of a beloved family pet, Beau, a black Labrador who has been part of her family’s life for fifteen years.

“I’ve put in my time around people whose bodies were failing, who were clearly marooned in some limbo between illness and death. I hated the way the medical profession felt obliged to continue to poke, to test, to treat, even when cure or comfort was not in the cards. With people, it’s assumed you’ll do everything; with animals you have the luxury of doing the right thing. A Supreme Court justice once said that one of the most important rights is the right to be left alone After nearly fifteen years of loyal companionship, Beau had earned that right.”

My mother-in-law has also earned that right. She is eighty eight years old. She weighs about ninety five pounds. Her back hurts, her bones are riddled with osteoporosis, her hearing is shot, her false teeth don't fit properly and her heart is weak. And you could eat, not only off her kitchen floor, but off the floor in her garage. Her windows sparkle, and dust is barred from entering. She makes me look like a wimp, though I do not even aspire to such paroxysms of cleanliness. She has good insurance, so doctors continue to poke, to test, to treat, and to prescribe more pills, and she goes along with it all, hoping, if not for a cure, for at least a little comfort, a little respite from pain.

She had a recent alarming jaunt to the hospital in an ambulance when her lungs were filled with water. She’d thought it was the pollen in the air that was making it so hard for her to breathe. It wasn’t a sure thing that she was going to make it. They dried out her lungs in the ER and hooked her up with a mask to help her breathe. I waited with her until they had a room for her, and while we waited she talked, yes, even with the mask! She wanted to be sure I knew some things, wanted to be sure things would be done the way she wanted, and she kept coming back to one thing......

She wanted me to tell the doctor to just give her a shot, to hurry things along!

“They’re not allowed to do that Grandma! That’s what got Dr. Kevorkian thrown in jail!”

But she wasn’t convinced. It seems to her such an eminently sensible solution. She’s in pain. She’s elderly. Nothing they do will make her better, or restore her to her former, legendary vigour. So, if she’s ready to go, and they have the means to make the going painless, her attitude is “Why not?” It could never be that black and white for me. I'd hear the voices of the nuns in my head, insisting---
“God gives life, only He is allowed to take it away.”

But she has things she wants to see resolved before she goes, so she rallied, with the doctors' help. Her lungs are working reasonably well again. She’s home now, enduring what Garrison Keillor waggishly calls “the tedium of decrepitude” for another while! Her windows sparkle still, her floors are spotless, and the dust flees in terror before her broom. Life is good again, for now. She will see her Pride and Joy, the OC, this weekend, and life has no greater pleasure for her than that!

Anna Quindlen’s book also reminded me of a sad day when I had to take our first child [pre-Liz!], our beloved black lab, Suzy, to be put down, and of yet another when the OC and I both took our Maggie to the vet for the same purpose. It felt strange to be making life and death decisions for other living creatures. But it felt right too, to put an end to the pain and misery old age had brought them. After all the joy they’d brought to our lives that seemed like the least that we should do.

Wordless Wednesday