tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31763816325460072112024-03-12T21:50:51.923-07:00All This and Heaven TooA rambling rumination on life, writing and general time-wasting exercisesEvhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.comBlogger234125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-56960707375745904682021-09-27T08:26:00.002-07:002021-09-27T08:26:56.134-07:00Back In The Saddle...<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I came out to my she-shed for the first time in eleven months this morning - to write. T</span>here were
Miss Havisham like cobwebs all around my desk and chair. I did battle with them
and evicted the spiders before I cleared the desk of ten months of detritus
and unread books. Yesterday a visit to my brother and his beautiful family brought me
a character –Erica Gilhooley. She is fully formed with a great back story and she
has a marvellous tale about An Extraordinary Thing that happened to her family during
2020’s Covidy Christmas. It’s a
middle grade book and it is flying out of me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is why
I write.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This feeling - the buzz you get
when a character comes and takes you by the hand on a merry walk. There is
NO feeling like it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s better than
driving. Better than sex. It’s even better than chocolate! I call this feeling
freedom and I think most of us experience it when we do something we love.
Something we know we’re good at. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I
laughed out loud twice at my narrator’s cheeky sense of fun in Chapter 1 and
the love she shows for her family is second to none. I know no-one else might laugh but I'm having fun with her. This part of the writing process has nothing to do with me and
I think many writers will agree. I just sit here and give my characters
permission to arrive, to dance from my fingers to the screen. During my eleven-month
drought of words I dabbled in picture books and crap poems. My adult prose had
dried up completely. I was 35k into a novel and I hated ( understood but hated)
one of my characters for his weakness. I’m writing <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in various voices and writing his chapters
really depresses me. I get so angry with him. I started this novel three
years ago and I know it’s not as bad as I think it is. But neither is it as
good as I want it to be! I loved writing picture books, they are very hard to write as they are for THE most discerning audience in
the world – under 6s and their parents. I have three picture books out circling
the globe looking for the right publisher and illustrators. If they ever get to
print yiz are all invited to the book launchs!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I started
to write around the time my husband took
up golf. That is two decades ago. We both needed something to replace pints in
our lives! Writing just ‘clicked’ with me – it was liking walking into a room
and finding people who finally understood me. Jemser loves the camaraderie of
the golf course and being out in the air but he gets totally disillusioned with
his game.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘It’s a whoor of a game’ he’ll claim after a
bad back nine, tossing his golf clubs aside. </span>This happens regularly. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I pointed
out that even Rory McElroy allowed himself to cry when interviewed about
The Ryder Cup 2021. He had a bad day. I bet Ann Enright, John Boyne and other brilliant writers
have torn her hair out at times with their characters, having bad days. I read Liz Nugent giving
out to her character recently on Twitter when she had written several thousand words
and the bitch was still alive!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Writing is
a whoor of a hobby. I genuinely feel for published professional authors -each
book they launch has to be as good as their previous book. Nothing else
(barring kids) has given me so much pleasure and so much frustrated pain. Like
The Jemser with his golfclubs I throw writing that isn’t working (I have four half
written novels) along with my laptop, pencils, and blank creamy paper aside and
wander off to pastures new. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Mind you it would
help if I finished things!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Losing heart in a project and procrastination are
as much a part of writing as rewriting is. It’s certainly true for me. I’m a
bit like the Mayo GAA team. At my core I don’t believe in myself – and I HAVE
to. If I don’t like what I write then neither could anyone else. The boredom
will show on the page. The moments of inspiration and euphoria are brief (and
exhausting) and do not replace hard work and application to the craft. I’m
easily distracted too and the WorldWideWeb is a curse. I go to research something
and end up down a rabbit hole with shag all on the page to show for my day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So. </span> I’m
setting myself targets on this middle grade novel – a minimum of 6000 words a
week. If I can do that I will have a first draft in six weeks. Then it’ll go
into a drawer. Then rewritten by me and sent to an editor. I use
purplecrayonediting for my children’s work and Storyline Literary Agency for
adult prose. Both editors are excellent and I highly recommend them.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">To aspiring writers -it is
worth paying to have your MS edited by a professional before you start submitting. There are
millions of books already in the world and every story must earn its place. When I
write Erica Gilhooley's world I will read mainly middle grade or YA fiction. It taps into the work. Close reading of the genre you are writing is essential as is
reading widely. I have two middle-grade novels on the go at the moment –
reading one and listening to another. Reading poetry helps me with the rhythm of
sentences and paragraphs. Reading crime is great for plot. Reading other well-written fiction takes my mind off my own characters once I have my word count
for the day done. Writers learn from other writers and most importantly from readers. Forget
about the market. Write passionately in the voice of your characters. See 'Shuggy
Bain', 'Iron Annie' and 'The Catcher in The Rye' for brilliant narrators.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Above all
never ever give up. BELIEVE!!</span></p>Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-37387499917225289882020-10-10T00:21:00.000-07:002020-10-10T00:21:45.206-07:00The Jameses, Seamuses, Seamais (fada yerself), Seamaishins, Hamish, Shems, Shemos etcetera, etcetera<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I used
etceteras in the title above instead of my usual ellipses because someone
recently commented that the overuse of ellipses and dashes in my writing is
irritating and shows a rambling mind. I pointed to The Master’s - Henry James -
extreme use of the comma to the modern reader, which showed someone who never
seemed to get to the bloody point. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A lively
debate ensued.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I digress.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s my
blog I can digress if I want to. Nobody is obliged to read.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Son#1 aka #TheChosenOne
starts a new job next week. This effectively means he has to fill in a
veritable shitload of forms verifying he is who he says he is. He’s a bit like one
of his parents – a very lively mind that generally cuts through the bull to the
nub of a question. But the most fundamental and basic question of one's life is
causing him awful bother. That is - WHAT IS YOIUR NAME. Unfortunately his
parents failed him rather badly at the start of his life by registering his
name at birth as James then immediately called him Seamus. Failed at first
breath. The poor bugger.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This James
was naturally Gaelicised then shortened and lengthened as he grew to Seamus,
Seamai, Seamashin (Donegal diminutive- fada yerself) Shem and Shemo. When he
was six weeks old I took him to Bun Ghlas on Sliabh Liag in Donegal, lifted him
skywards saying ‘Kunta Kinte’. Universe knows what effect had on his already
confused psyche. When he developed his own life outside the home he evolved
into Shay. All his friends including his girlfriend and her family call him
Shay. I have been known to occasionally refer to him as Shay myself. Shay is an
entirely different beast to my little Seamai – although he’s rather nice. I
blame the parents.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This
confusion over nomenclature is not entirely of my making. My father is a James referred
to as <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seamus until he came to Dublin as
a Garda where he became James or Jim. For thirty years in work he was Jim
Welsh. At home, Seamus Walsh. His youngest son was called Seamus, on the birth
certificate, baptismal cert, and all official documents – the same mistake was
not to be made. This child was going to know who he was. He was widely known at
home, with family, and on the road as Seamai. Then he started school and like his
two older brothers became Wally.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In my late
twenties I met a James called Jim and fell for him. Not realising he was called
Seamus at home in Donegal – you can see where this is going.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That was
fine. By the time I met him he’d been out of Donegal for twenty years and
answered to Jim so it wasn’t a problem. Then we had a son. I repeated the naming
error mainly because I was a people
pleaser and wanted nobody hurt. I also thought (foolishly) that he could decide
himself when he grew up what he wanted to be called. I had him christened for the
same reason – he can choose himself, immediately burdening him with the fact I
rejected Satan without asking him if he wanted Satan rejected. I also guessed
he’d have to go to school at some stage and as there wasn’t much educational
choice in Ireland in the Nineties it
made sense. Church and State are still not fully separated when it comes to
education.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I called him Seamus, registered him as
James, christened him as James then went on with all the nicknames a Seamus has
barring Shay – I didn’t really like that diminutive (sorry Shay!) He’s in my
phone as SeamaiMySeamai. That’ll do for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">One
Christmas there were four Jim/Seamus/Seamais around my table. That was it.
No-one else bar me. I was pregnant with a Liam at the time but he didn’t answer
when I said ‘Seamus, pass the salt’. Neither did the rest of them. There was
quite probably was some obscure play being relived from some GAA match played
somewhere rural at some time since 1955. The priorities around the table in my
home when the Seamuses are gathered are ancient and tribal. Despite me having
NO clue. I’m generally happy to chew the cud and talk to the childer. Unless
there is a reader at the table. Then the childer can talk to themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Back to the
James/Seamus/Seamai/Shay who is trying desperately to explain Hiberno English
to an outsourced HR department. The whole thing has brought on the young man’s
eczema – isn’t it awful the way anxiety can bring out a reaction on your skin?
That’s my fault too - but material for another waffle entirely.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So. The
child turned man has now vowed to call himself James on every official document
from here on in and to become James in work etcetera. When I ring and look for
SeamaiMySeamai the whole place is going to go into a tailspin. It was only when
I worked in payroll in the early Eighties that I realised how many people were
entirely different people when it came to official names. I wonder is this a
peculiarly Irish thing? Although no – it’s not. Russian diminutives and the way
Asian and Indian family names can differ from official ones is also endlessly
confusing. I bet the whole thing goes back to colonialism. It causes fierce upset
in these global times when your parent company could be Australian yet their human
resources can be outsourced to an Indonesian company whose first language is
not necessarily business English and definitely not Hiberno English. So the
name Seamus has been banned as being passed on any further in our family.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I have a
great grandfather, a father, a brother, a husband and a son Seamus. I also have
a grandfather, uncle, brother and son Liam. Then there is my brother Ken – the only
reason he’s not a Thomas, Tommy or Tom is that when he was born my mother
had a father, brother and brother in law Thomas, Tommy and Tom; she was told
there were too many Toms in the family. She called him Kenneth as being the
nearest to her maiden name Kennedy – not knowing that her father would have
loved a grandchild named Tom for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Poor Ken –
growing up knowing you’ve been called the wrong name can cause confusion in you.
I then had the temerity to call my two lads Seamus and Liam – leaving Ken out.
Our Kenneth is an original anyway – no imitation or imitators.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And nobody
ever mixed him up with a father, brother or son.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Except when
he was a Wally.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-54361659951453222682020-10-09T01:24:00.002-07:002020-10-09T01:24:20.520-07:00Deleted Post<p> Got into a little trouble over last post so deleted it. Sigh.</p>Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-79319672770206331772020-10-06T02:46:00.001-07:002020-10-06T02:46:28.511-07:00The Incredible Tale of MeejahLittle...AGAIN<p>I wrote this is 2011 when as a nation we were bludgeoned to depression by the steady drip feed of negativity as one media outlet after another tried to outdo themselves in the blame game. The hoo-haw over the perceived spat between Nephet and the Government yesterday reminded me of it. All parties involved are adults. All parties involved are trying to do their jobs to the best of their abilities. I'm leaving all social media, news sites, radio and tv news and switching to books and music and one daily nesapaper for the rest of the winter. One feed of 'news' a day is enough for anyone. We are as a nation talked out. We need to hould our whisth and have a big coladh samh. This will pass. And in the meantime yiz can contemplate the Tale of Meejah Little.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />Well, MeeJahLittle was running around in Mad Money's garden enjoying flowers and fruits not his when an apple dropped from a tree and fell on his head. The apple was overblown, scabby, filled with worms and such and had to fall. </div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">MeeJahLittle didn't wait around to work this out - off he ran shrieking to find MeeJahBig.</div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />'Oh! MeejahBig' he said, 'the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'<br />'Why how do you know?' asked MeejahBig<br />'Didn't I hear it with my own ears and see it with my own eyes and part of it fell on my head!'shrieked MeejahLittle.<br />'Oh Lord! Come then, let us run as fast as we can,' said MeejahBig. And off they ran to find MeejahBigger .</div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />'MeejahBigger! MeejahBigger! The sky is falling, the sky is falling,' screeched MeejahsLittleandBig<br />'How do you know?' asked MeejahBigger.<br />'Well, MeejahLittle told me!' squawked MeejahBig <br />'And I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears and part of it fell on my head. Twice,' shrieked MeejahLittle<br />'Lord save us!' cried MeejahBigger, 'We must run as fast as we can.'. And off they ran 'til they found MeejahBiggerAgain.</div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />'Oh! MeejahBiggerAgain,' they caterwauled 'the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'<br />'How do you know' gasped MeejahBiggerAgain.<br />'Why MeejahsBigAndLittle told me' cried MeejahBigger.<br />'MeejahLittle told me' squawked MeejahBig.<br />'And I saw it with my own eyes heard it with my own ears, part of it fell on my head twice and then rolled along my back.' shrieked MeejahLittle</div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />'Lord between us and all harm!We must run, we must run!' harumphed MeeJahBiggerAgain. And they ran and they ran until they found MeeJahNormous</div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">.<br />'MeeJahNormous!MeeJahNormous!The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' they all roared<br />'How do you know?'queried MeeJahNormous<br />'MeeJahsLittleToBigger told me!' harumphed MeejahBiggerAgain<br />'MeeJahsLittleToBig told me too' cried MeeJahBigger<br />'MeeJahLittle told me first' squawked MeejahBig<br />'And I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears, part of it crashed down TWICE on my head THEN rolled along my back and THEN fell on my toe.' shrieked MeeJahLittle.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">'We better tell the people on the edge' decided MeeJahNormous. 'It's our duty.'<br /><br />So they all ran as fast as they could to tell the people on the edge. And the people on the edge all ran over the edge screaming<br /> 'The sky is falling, the sky is falling' and then fell down, down, down into the abyss.</div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"> And all this from the foolish shrieking of MeeJahLittle.<br /><br /></div><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">The End</div>Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-38938613894870946522020-03-25T08:48:00.001-07:002020-03-25T08:48:46.615-07:00Never have books been more important.........<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So. A week
down – many more to go. We’re getting used to the new ‘normal’, we actually all
quite like each other in my house, respectful of privacy whilst mindful of others
need for human contact – just not through touch! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I drove to
Maynooth to bring some books and toys to my gorgeous stepgrandaughter*1
yesterday. I dropped them in the porch and stood back at the gate. When she came
to the door she <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>automatically started to
run towards me. I put up my hand. ‘Stop.’ She did. ‘ I love you, nothing would
give me greater pleasure than to hug your little body right now. But I can’t.’
So I stood their and mimed a deep deep hug. ‘Did you feel it?’ I asked. ‘Yes!’
she jumped up and down and sent me a hug back. I can’t fly to Seattle to do the
same for stepgrandson*1, but I so wish I could. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were home at Christmas and that will have
to do for now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Never has
the world been better prepared to practice personal distancing. The Internet
and various social media apps mean we can chat and see each other. I know this
was at the expense of handing over all our data to the moguls. But right now it
feels worth it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They may think they know
everything about me from what I watch or listen to or read or how and where I shop, but they
don’t. As all humans know one can never really know another, we like to think
we know our loved ones but even they can surprise, sometimes shock, us from
time to time. Sometimes one wonders if we even really know ‘self’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I smiled when I heard in a vox pop on radio yesterday - 'books aren't an essential service'. OH YES THEY ARE! </span>Socrates
said that the unconsidered life is not worth living. As the phrase suggest the ‘considered
life’ is a life enriched by thinking about things that matter – values, aims,
society, the characteristics of the human condition, desires – both personal
and public, the enemies of human flourishing and the meanings of life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Writers
spend most of their time doing all of the above. Fiction writers in the
creation of their characters – find a character your reader can empathise with
and you have found a loyal reader. Writers of non-fiction show us those who have
been moulded by the accidents of birth, DNA,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and by circumstance both familial and societal. </span>Never have
writers been more important. Never have books been more important. Find writers
you like – read widely. I promise it will enrich your life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Buy books for those
you love that you feel they will like. Books are like any other Art form – what’s
one person’s ‘best read ever’ is another’s ‘so-so’. I didn’t go to college and
didn’t come from a reading household. There was no money for books. But my
parents guided me towards the public library system aged seven – and so I
began. I never had anything to guide my reading but still managed to find some
wonderful, wonderful books that have stayed with me. These are books I return to
again and again – mainly to recapture that frisson of ‘oh! the writer knows – they understand
me.’ There are so many books out there - you'll definitely find one that suits and if the one you picked up is only so so to you then don't worry. I’m a reader – I know the next best book ever
is just around the corner, for each and every one of us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If you are
book buying at the moment try to order from your local bookshop. Many of them
are online and willing to get your beloved book to you. My personal favourites
are Bob in </span><a href="https://gutterbookshop.com/">https://gutterbookshop.com/</a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> in Temple Bar Dublin and Des Kenny
of </span><a href="https://www.kennys.ie/">https://www.kennys.ie/</a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-19736956039382360132020-03-18T08:37:00.000-07:002020-03-18T08:37:02.382-07:00Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the .... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now is the time
for all good men to come to the aid of the party<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I must have
typed the sentence above thousands of times in 1979 as I learned to touch type.
I never thought much about it. Apparently it, and ‘the quick brown fox jumped
over the lazy dog’ exercised particular fingers to build up speed on a qwerty
keyboard. No sentence resonates with me more in these scary times. I’d
substitute country or world for party though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I live in
Swords, Fingal, North County Dublin. I have a feeling we may see a cluster of
Covid19 cases in this area. Many of those living in Fingal work in Dublin
Airport, through which the virus probably travelled over the last fortnight. If
this occurs no administrative area is better to live in to practice social
distancing whilst maintaining your sanity. We are blessed with an abundance of
beautiful regional parks - Ardgillan Castle and Demesne in Balbriggan,
Newbridge House and Demesne in Donabate <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Malahide Castle and Demesne. We have fabulous
beaches – Donabate, Rush, Skerries, Rush, Malahide, Loughshinney. Lots of
places to go for a daily walk, where children can run free whilst staying away
from older people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Today I
kitted out my writing shed as an isolation unit if any of us need to self
isolate. It’s perfect, I bought an inflatable single mattress and a portable
loo so any of us can cocoon ourselves away from others for the required period.
Perhaps entering the house when no one else is there to shower and empty the
portaloo. My shed is full of books, notebooks, cds, a radio. Internet
connectivity can be intermittent but that’s no bad thing. I may even do some
writing! I am so looking forward to reading all the wonderful books that will be
written over the next few months. Literary agents and publishers are going to
be swamped with new content next year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My family have
been lucky in some ways. Son*1 (25) SMASHED his left leg on January 3<sup>rd</sup>
and has been effectively quarantined at home since then. His gorgeous
girlfriend has only left his side to go to work, they were due to go to
Edinburgh in January to start their adult life together. It seemed like a
disaster at the time and we were all dreading confinement together. We have two
living type rooms in our house. They use one, we the other. My kitchen is tiny
but we take turns at cooking. The Jemser and I are retired from admin jobs for
years. We are two months further down the road of being in the company of
family on a long term basis than others.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> And it's working</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> The younger adults have started to
bake – son’s brown bread with cheese and rosemary is to die for. His fruit soda
is sinfully moreish. Her Mac n' Cheese is delicious. </span> They’ve started painting, writing, learning
and creating new songs. We’re looking at turning part of our garage into a
potters area as the girlfriend has pottery in her blood. Son*2 is in college
and when he has been home he is mostly up in his room (nothing new!). He’ll miss his girlfriend
but they are both being sensible -staying in contact via technology. As the
weather gets warmer we can open up the windows and he can play piano for our
neighbours. My lovely Clann Cunningham are so musical, both in creating content and interpreting
others' work. I think the next few months will see many people exploring their creative side, slow things they never thought they had time to do.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ll miss
stepdaughters*1 and *2 of course. And our grandchildren. But I went for a
virtual walk with <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>stepdaughter*2 in
Maynooth the other day. With WhatsApp video we chatted as she pointed the
camera at Caralicious cycling her bike WITHOUT STABILISERS (yay) up the quiet
road of their estate in Maynooth. Later I played Hide and seek with the
Corminator aged almost 3 in Seattle. I counted, he hid and jumped out with a ‘BOO’
as soon as I stopped counting. Then we played ‘don’t wake Nanny up’. He
delights in roaring as I snore and I overreact and jump awake. Then he showed
me all his trucks. We were supposed to visit them in May for his birthday. I
doubt it’ll happen now. But this WILL end and we will get there later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As long as
the Internet doesn’t get Covid-19 and collapse EVERYTHING WILL BE OK!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I drove to
Skerries for my walk today and observed excellent social distancing on the
beach. I got a stick and wrote in the sand as large as I could -<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Kids<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Our SuperHeroes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">WWWashYourHands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I badly-drew
a big heart around it and asked any kids I passed on way back to car to go and
decorate it with stick drawing or shells – and to please fix my heart! To the
tune of ‘Baby Shark’ I sang and danced for them<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">‘Wash your hands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Do do deh do deh do<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wash your hands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Do do deh etc<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wash Your Hands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glan do Laimh<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(fada
yerself!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Do do deh do deh do<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Glan do Laimh<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Do do etc<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Glan do Laimth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Lavos Manos<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Do do deh do deh do’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Etc etc etc in whatever language you like<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I made them
smile, so did their parents.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I felt good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Look after
each other and be kind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-78739167572633049662020-03-15T01:57:00.000-07:002020-03-15T01:57:15.662-07:00Get Calm - then carry on<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Where on
Earth do I start?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What can I
write that is not being written by others more informed, better read? The finest
minds on the planet are now engaged in a battle against an invisible enemy that
threatens everyone. The flaws in nationalist, populist and insular policies shown.
The flaws in globalism are also revealed. The rise in loss of bio-diversity and
increases in climate change which, experts have been patiently explaining for
years, is giving rise to super viruses crossing species and pandemics like Covid19
is a clamouring alarm call to us all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Those of us
in the ‘first world’ have been consuming ourselves to death for over fifty
years. The fruits of that consumption have fallen from the tree and lie rotting.
It will be the poorest and most vulnerable (as always) who will foot the bill with their lives and their health. A
couple of months of social distancing, hand washing and self-isolation for the
rest of us seems little enough to contribute whilst the experts engage in
saving lives, developing vaccines, and discussing policies to change the way we
live.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ireland is a small country. We’re a close people. Most families will be
touched, in some way, by worry and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>grief
over the coming months. </span>Countries
with poor public health systems – like the richest country in the world – are going
to suffer most. I turned off all radio and social media earlier this week as
people bleated about economies tanking. It’s only money lads. Most of it isn’t even
real – just marks on a page, ridiculous numbers that mean nothing to most of
us. Economies can be rebuilt. We cannot bring people back from the dead.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">People, and
our relationship with the ecosystem we live in is the only thing that matters now. We MUST change the way we live or - like dinosaurs, face extinction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ll blog
something cheerier later. I feel much better with that off my chest!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Get calm – then
carry on <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-49573409831398534182019-10-27T09:43:00.001-07:002019-10-27T09:43:24.048-07:00Tara - Seat of The High Kings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In the deep
gentle silence of Co. Meath lies Tara; a royal place, a sacred place, a special place for us<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celts since roughly 4,000
years BC.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">To my eternal shame I did not visit Tara until today, despite my stepdaughters and their
children having such a huge reverence and regard for the place that some of their
mother’s ashes were scattered from The King’s Seat
(don’t tell the OPW!). One of those grandchildren is named Cormac, in
honour of Cormac Mac Airt – High King of the legends. Cormac's Nana Muireann battled
valiantly - as valiantly as Queen Mebd would have battled, to prevent a
motorway destroying the landscape around this sacred ground. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">My maternal family lore has it that we are descendants of Gormflaith who was married briefly to Brian Boru (941 -1014), known as Emperor of The Gaels and one of the more recent High Kings. Gormflaith has gone down in history as being 'utterly wicked.' Maybe that's why we never talked about her!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, armed with these connections to Tara, it being a beautiful morning, and daylight saving gifting us a fictitious extra hour I felt it a good day to visit; particularly as
we approach Samhain – the Gaelic festival that celebrates the end of harvest
and the move into the darker half of the year.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Samhain is a time for ghouls and ghosts,
witches and wonders, it is a time when it was believed <i>Aos Si</i> (spirits
or fairies) could move with greater ease from their world into ours (if you are a <i>gaeilgeoir</i> please excuse my lack of fadas). </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">I met none of these beings on my gentle amble
around the site, given Gormflaith's reputation I'd rather not meet her spirit!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"> I did meet some imps from England, Dublin and Northern
Ireland though - who gloried in running up and down the slopes of Tara.</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">One little chap, Henry - aged about three, ambled about the top of The King's Seat and enjoyed himself in the
muddiest puddle I’ve ever seen. His older siblings and cousins looked on in
envy; Henry being the only one sensible enough to be shod in wellies. I’m sure
the dead buried here were delighted; children’s laughter should ring out
everywhere to remind us we are yet quick and that we should live, live, live while we can.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">I stayed for about an hour, walking, contemplating the beauty and thinking of my own dead. The men and women buried
in Tara are in my DNA – maybe in only the tiniest</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"> molecule, but still part of me. It is
said we die twice – first when the physical body stops working and secondly
the last time someone says our name. To that I’d pose a third possibility – perhaps we
are actually immortal, as some tiny bit of us goes forward – in our brothers and
sisters, cousins, sons and daughters, in family.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Enough philosophizing and talking pure shite!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Seriously, if you have a chance over the coming
week take your children and loved ones to Tara, let them run and play, kick a ball or have a
few pucks with hurl and sliotair. The interpretive centre is closed but there
is a lovely coffee shop beside the site.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">You’ll come away feeling thoughtful and
rejuvenated.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Promise.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><a href="https://hilloftara.com/" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">https://hilloftara.com/</a></div>
<br /></div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-58542524462103764452017-09-29T15:16:00.000-07:002017-09-29T15:31:43.957-07:00Diary of Cara Cunnyham aged 3.916667 years (roughly)...............<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nanny collected me today. It was exciting. We had an ENORMOUS hug. Nanny says I am the best hugger in the world. Mamai says that too, so it must be true.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On the way to Swords we sang songs. I sang ‘Do you want to build a snowman’ and Nanny sang ‘I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.’ Nanny says her singing has improved since I came into the world. Mamai, Liam and Seamai are brilliant singers, so is Grandad. So is everyone in the Cunnyham family. We are a really lucky family. When I’m a bit bigger I am going to sing songs at Cunnyham parties. One on my own and one with Mamai. Nanny says everyone will clap and say ‘wonderful’ and I will smile because I made people happy with my singing.</div>
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Aunty Dearbhaile is bringing out a CD soon, and she's not a Cunnyham! Lots of musicians and singers are helping her. Mamai and Eithne are on the CD too. I love Aunty Dearbhaile. She has a voice like an angel, or maybe a being who lives in the clouds or the mist or in the wind.. We picked Liam up in Swords and went to Skerries to feed the ducks and swans. Liam and me sang ‘Acuna Matata’ and Nanny joined in the applebrite. Nanny told me it’s not called an applebrite it’s called a chorus. She can’t figure out why I thought it was called an applebrite. It’s the wrong word but I think it’s a nice word. I like the feeling of it in my mouth.</div>
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We went to the pond at Skerries Mills. </div>
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When all the bread for the birds was gone we went to the playground. Nanny LOVES Skerries playground. When we arrived in the carpark there was half a rainbow diving into the sea.</div>
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Liam pushed me on the swing then Nanny and me swung in the space ship swing. We had great fun. Liam thought we were mad. We sang 'Let it Go' as we swang.</div>
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We played shop but stopped when Liam found out I only had PRETEND custard creams in my shop. He said he was going to sue me for false advertising. Nanny says most advertising is false anyway. Nanny and Liam’s minds work kind of different to a lot of people’s minds. They keep getting distracted and ramble off on tangents and don’t CONCENTRATE on one thing at a time. She is worse than he is.</div>
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We brought Liam back to Swords and I fell asleep in the middle of a song. When I woke up Liam was gone in and the boys from down the road were chatting to Nanny. One of them asked Nanny was she very old and Nanny said yes she was and walked up and down the road like a crumpled up old person and talked in a funny squeaky voice saying she knew she looked old but she was really six inside and she was never EVER EVER going to grow up because a lot of grown-ups are BORING. We laughed and laughed.</div>
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Nanny and I went to the pool. We stayed until I was wrinkly. Nanny was wrinkly too but some of her wrinkles are oldy wrinkles and some are water wrinkles. Nanny pretended to be a dolphin and I was a mermaid holding onto her as we went around in the Lazy River. When my new cousin comes home from America we will all go swimming. And Mamai says I will be able to go on a plane with her to visit them very very soon. </div>
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When we arrived back in Swords we had pizza and sat and cuddled with Grandad on the couch. Nanny brought me to bed and Liam came in and sang us two songs. I fell asleep halfway through the applebrite of ‘Starry Starry Night’………….. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx</div>
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-72262032235307265782017-07-14T16:51:00.000-07:002017-07-14T16:51:18.836-07:00#RiotDublin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Where to begin?<br />
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I've just arrived home from the finest night of entertainment on an Irish stage since I saw the glorious heyday of Passion Machine plays in the mid Eighties. I attended Riot in Vicar Steet this evening - the perfect venue for this raucous riveting display of Irish talent. Part spoken word, part dance, part aerial acrobatics, part searing commentary on the politics and social status of this little island, part song - a thousand belly laughs, a few tears. Just FN BRILLIANT! Reminiscent of the cabaret scene in Berlin in the 1930s I think.<br />
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This show should be mandatory for the senior cycle of every school in this country. It shows what we are capable of, it highlights Irish creativity, it shows the love we have for each other, it teaches respect for every individual drawing a breath at this very moment. I was probably one of the older members of the audience but by god I stamped and clapped and danced and sang with all dem young wans. I gave it welly!<br />
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The show was co-written by Emmet Kirwan and Panti Bliss - two flippin' geniuses, with additional text and voiceover by our own darling curmudgeon Michael Harding. So you know the writing was top class. Composer and Musical Director was Alma Kelliher and Up and Over It with the Lords of Strut and Ronan Brady took care of most of the dance, acrobatics and clowning. The singing was superb particularly Adam Matthews and Nicola Kavanagh and I have a feeling that Megan Riordan - a force of nature - was the glue that held the whole thing together.<br />
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The set, costumes, light and sound design were top notch. I genuinely could not find one fault with the event. I hope to Christ it comes back again or tours the country or hits the West End - it is certainly good enough to do so.<br />
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High Fives and Big Hugs to everyone involved. I love yiz!! </div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-80633935079537173122017-01-23T20:08:00.001-08:002017-01-23T20:08:22.150-08:00A Bad Dose of Trumpitis...........<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I like Facebook. It’s the garden wall, the pub counter, the church gates, a place for a bit of a flirt and a bit of aul’ gossip. I can keep an eye on the goings on of some of my siblings, my nieces and nephews, have a laugh with friends – share their good news with a ‘like’ and commiserate with them if they're down or have bad news. It’s obviously no substitute for sitting in someone’s company for a couple of hours nattering, for listening to stories and reading body language, but in today’s manic high speed world Facebook mimics community and suffices until we can actually do the down time with loved ones bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I’m suspending my account once this blog is posted for a few months - because Facebook was making me afraid or paranoid or something. President Donald Trump of the USA is all over it and it became (for me) increasingly difficult to read or watch anything about him. The man seems to put his foot in it every time he opens his mouth. The months and months of listening, watching and reading the vitriolic bile that spewed from his mouth during the election campaign, of watching him strut around - his face a mask of false humility and concern (he is the hammiest actor I’ve ever seen) made me increasingly concerned for the safety of the ‘free’ world.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had reassured myself they wouldn’t elect him, I know lots of Americans – they’re all lovely people, bright, hardworking people, they want the same things in life most of us do. A secure roof over their heads, shelter from the cold or oppressive heat. They want to eat well and educate their children. They want access to good healthcare for their families. Surely these people – so like me, wouldn’t elect an orange baboon to such high office? Apart from anything else it would be disrespectful of such office. But they did. Or rather their system did. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So. Into the White House goes President Trump and off Facebook comes little ole me. I've become obsessed with the man. Fretful, constantly clicking on links to have more screaming headlines surrounded by advertisements flash before my eyes. I was so worried about what he might do that I was making myself ill; so I’ve called a halt to my own unbridled gallop. Talk about worrying over things over which one has no control! I’m ridiculous, and I admit it. The best cure for my severe dose of Trumpitis is six months rest from Facebook; I’m allowing myself a daily hour’s glance at The Guardian, The New York Times and The Irish Times plus whatever radio news I catch during the day to keep me informed on major developments and I’m quite sure the world will continue to spin, the seasons to change and the tide to come in and go out while I take me eye off the ball! It’s gas. I’m constantly telling other to BREATHE and stop worrying, to look after themselves, avoid toxicity in all forms – yet a lot of the time I cannot take my own sound advice.</div>
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But I’m really really going to try………..<o:p></o:p></div>
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PS If HeWhoShallNotBeNamed is annoying you maybe start a petition to have him sit on the naughty step until he tempers his language?? Just a suggestion…………<o:p></o:p></div>
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-70918749927598183522016-09-21T02:05:00.000-07:002016-09-21T02:05:54.423-07:00Remembered, not Forgotten.............<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In this, the centenary year of The Battle of the Somme in
Northern France, I travelled with extended family to lay a plaque at the
Thiepval Memorial in honour of our great-uncle Peter Whelan, who died in
September 1916 halfway through that bloodiest of battles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Billions of words have been written about The Somme and its
name has become synonymous with pain and suffering. I’ve read a few thousand of
those words, I’ve seen the pictures, watched the documentaries – but nothing
prepared me for the emotion I felt as I walked the ground where my twenty two
year old ancestor died an awful, unnecessary death. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The area where The Battle took place over 141 days is
incredibly flat, of course it was pummeled into submission. Trees have been re-introduced since the Second World War and
the land looks good, there are large fields of corn, kale and cabbage; other
fields are fallow and lie neatly tilled. The earth is reddish brown and crumbly
– good soil; perhaps fertilised by the blood and bones of the over one million
men who gave their lives for us – or so they believed. Were they misled? Who
can say they were wrong? The reasons for the first World War are complex, I
have difficulty remembering them all, and I wonder how many of those
under-educated boys could comprehend how they ended up in churned up fields in
France, up to their oxters in mud, driven mad by lice and rats; all five
senses being constantly battered by the horrific carnage all round them.<br />
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The ceremony at Thiepval was extraordinarily moving. I tried
to do my best in reading aloud a Tom Kettle poem but my emotions nearly got the
better of me. My cousins had a similar problem when they read out a short piece
about Peter Whelan in both English and Irish and to wrap up another cousin read
a Francis Ledwidge poem. After a two
minutes silence we all trooped up the steps of the monument to lay a ceramic
plaque (made by an incredibly talented cousin) inscribed as follows<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7SKV-jufFjVaAro3JC-0JM-AKytMW82CKEUfV53ltvawgFtNfEE-IAQnnScgBCbhm893DFcJvj0qeULDr5pnwUVZ0LBrUlHcW0evFs34P4PRwLeUmKpPuTeHDz-qBUtN0EusySYn27ia/s1600/14393852_1344075618943520_1163937871_o.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7SKV-jufFjVaAro3JC-0JM-AKytMW82CKEUfV53ltvawgFtNfEE-IAQnnScgBCbhm893DFcJvj0qeULDr5pnwUVZ0LBrUlHcW0evFs34P4PRwLeUmKpPuTeHDz-qBUtN0EusySYn27ia/s320/14393852_1344075618943520_1163937871_o.jpg" width="180" /></a><br />
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After trying and failing to find someplace in very rural France to purchase a cup of coffee we decided instead to visit as many of the sites as we could in our limited time. We visited the South African Memorial in Delville Wood where over ten thousand men died. Only one tree remained intact at the end of the battle. The area has been re wooded and oak, sycamore, ash and birch provide a lofty peaceful canopy over the shallow trenches where men once crawled to get back to bigger trenches named after streets at home. I thought Delville Wood a very peaceful place - until an Englishman (old soldier by his garb) found a WWI hand grenade at the side of the road. He explained that there are still grenades, shrapnel and bits of human bone working their way up through the soil. As the farmer tills his field he places anything he finds on the side of the road and the police pick them up.<br />
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Last stop before gin o'clock was to see the Lochnagar Crater, the largest man-made mine crater in WWI on the Western Front. It looks like a small meteorite fell. Bits of bones that still surface from time to time are sent for DNA testing in an effort to identify what nationality the owner of said bone might have been. Then it is buried with its countrymen.<br />
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<img alt="Aerial photograph of Lochnagar Crater taken in the 1980s." src="https://www.greatwar.co.uk/somme/images/somme-lochnagar-crater-aerial-400.jpg" /><br />
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We drove to our hotel in Amiens a tad subdued. We were emotionally drained and, given that the mean age of the party was about 55, various body parts were complaining (statistician cousin can correct me on this!). However - fortified by alcohol and showers we ventured out into the mildness of a French September evening to eat good food, drink GREAT wine, laugh, talk and reminisce. It was lovely. I felt like a child on Carne Beach in Wexford again, where the families would try to get together every August. Salad Days.<br />
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Sunday was given over to sight seeing around Amiens. The Gothic Cathedral is well worth a visit. Amiens suffered badly during both World Wars, being occupied several times by both sides but it has been rebuilt into a pleasant wide boulevarded city; it has a very relaxed atmosphere and we had a very pleasant day there, we all particularly enjoyed a boat ride on a man made canal in the city's central park. We ate outdoors in a little restaurant and it was delicious, particularly the cafe gourmand - although I was reliably informed the the creme brulee was to die for.<br />
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Then we flew home. I haven't seen much of my cousins in the last thirty years, but I think we felt comfortable around each other. I suppose the things that made you happy as a child can do so again as an adult; we always had great fun when we were together as kids and the time apart seemed to count for little, we just picked up where we left off.<br />
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I hope it won't be another thirty years before I see the Walshie cousins again.<br />
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-36298051426597725262016-09-02T14:30:00.003-07:002016-09-02T16:08:58.546-07:00Pretending to Fly......<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had a gorgeous day today; actually I had a great week, month, summer - but that's another blog.<br />
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Stepgranddaughter#1andonly is here for her weekly vist. I only arrived home yesterday from Inishboffin - where I spent a few days writing, so I didn't feel guilty about taking time off to spend with her. I know from experience how short is the timeframe of childhood - and the world isn't waiting with bated breath for my writing. I am determined to drag every bit of enjoyment from this little one's early years.<br />
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We went to the lovely <a href="http://skerriesmills.ie/">skerriesmills.ie</a> where we fed the swans and ducks and laughed as the sea gulls tried to rob the bread. We chatted with a man and his son - the man was very knowledgeable about the wildlife in the area and I learned a few new things - every day is a schoolday. We had a cup of coffee, a juice and chokkie bikkies, made friends with a lovely woman and her three small children. It was fun.<br />
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Then we drove up to the playground in Skerries - it has to be one of the most beautifully located playgrounds in Ireland. It is right by the seashore and is really well equipped and totally safe. We fell to chatting with another grandmother, mother and little girl. The little one was a few months older than Carlicious and they were shy at first but soon made friends. The grandmother told me how her husband died a year ago, about how quiet and lonely the house can seem now, and how lucky she is to be near her daughters and their children. She sees everyone at least once a week and the grandkids often have sleepovers in Granny's; she said the company of the children has comforted her most. The woman was a total stranger, I only learned the child's name - but we hugged when we left and she thanked me.<br />
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I dropped Caralicious home to The Jemser and drove over to see my poor battered beautiful sister Lousy LuLu LongLegs. Louise had an accident last week, went over the handlebars of her bike, smashed up her jaw and face and broke a bone in her hand. She's on the mend - it'll be a long slow recovery - but she's alive. When you think of how quickly a life can be snuffed out! A simple wobble over a cat's eye and pulling the wrong brake. Where would we the Wobbly Walshies without our supportive compassionate empathetic Lou? Her husband thought he was going to lose her at the side of the road, he held her hand as she told him she loved him, she loved the girls and to mind each other. When the ambulance arrived she was giving the paramedics advice (she's a nurse - a damn fine nurse) despite the horrendous pain she was in. She had nothing but praise for the HSE - from the Killybegs ambulance that took her to Letterkenny General where the staff put her into an induced coma (although she was horrified as she slipped into merciful unconsciousness to see a scissors approaching to cut off the brand new outfit she was wearing!), to the ambulance men who drove her to Dublin the following day and then the wonderful staff in the Mater Hospital who looked after her with such care and compassion. Praise where it's due - when the system works it works well.<br />
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Louise bought the family home years ago and her bedroom now is the one I shared with my three sisters for years. As I lay on the bed beside her, chatting and trying not to make her laugh I couldn't help visualizing the room as it had been back then. The double bed shared by Aisling and Lousie lay under the Sacred Heart lamp. Judy and I slept in pale pink narrow iron bunk beds.The laughs we had in that room! Plenty of squabbling and meanness too of course! So, between remembering stuff from over forty years ago and feeling so for Lou and the pain she is in, I was in a state of heightened emotion on leaving the house.<br />
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When I got home I took Caralicious out onto the green where we played with a neighbour and her little girl - who is five months younger than Cara. This little girl -Maisie Belle - is like a little fairy, dark haired and sallow skinned with fabulous eyes. We played hittingtheballwithspades and pretendingtobebirds - flying around and around the tree before settling to make a nest with twigs and leaves and feathers. When everyone got tired we came home and Cara and I watched Elmo in GrouchLand. Christ I LOVE Elmo! Son#1 took Elmo as his confirmation name - much to the amusement of his classmates and the chagrin of his teacher; who knew he was doing it for subversive reasons, not because he had any devotion to St. Elmo.<br />
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It was watering the plants time then - and Cara, in only her knickies and crocs, jumped about with son#1'sgirlfriend (fully clothed!) in a puddle created by the hose. After all that we were exhausted, so we came up to bed and I read her the first three chapters of Winnie-The-Pooh; she loved Pooh, loved that I substituted Cara Teresa for Christopher Robin and Nanny for the adult narrator. I can't wait to continue the story tomorrow because then she'll get to hear about Tigger, I just know she's gonna love Tigger! There'll be a battle in this house when she gets to about six as to who is going to read the Haprry Potter series to her.<br />
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She is lying beside me now, fast asleep. And I think of the love that surrounds her, the love that surrounded me as a child from my parents, my siblings, the love of my own family and extended family today. Louise is fond of saying #lafamiliaestodo , and she's right. When families function coherently they are everything - Freud apparently said all we need in life is work and love, and although a lot of his stuff has been discredited I think this tenet holds true.<br />
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And we need the breathing of course - don't forget d'aul breathing!</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-55201018889552113362016-08-17T02:24:00.001-07:002016-08-17T02:24:42.572-07:00Diary #2 of Cara Cunnyham aged 2 and 3/4..................<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello everybody! Nanny told Cara that EVERYBODY loved my last chat. So here's another one. Nanny says it'll be more of the same and maybe people won't read it. But Cara likes chatting - people don't have to listen. Nanny says Cara is very wise and people should listen - but they don't have to.<br />
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When we left Granny Teresa's house we went to the mountain. Nanny is always talking and talking about this mountain called Sliabh Liag. When Seamai was only a little baby Nanny brought him up to the place called Bun Glas and lifted him up in the air to show him where he belonged. Nanny was funny and said 'Kunta Kinte' when she lifted him up and Grandad laughed and called her a 'daft thing' - but she meant it. Nanny says we all belong to the air and the sea and the mountains - lots of people think its the land that's important, the land and the land and the land. Nanny says all the wars in the world were caused by silly people fighting over a bit of muck.<br />
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Cara and Nanny stood on the viewing platform and looked down at the Giant's table and chair. Cara wanted to go down to it but Nanny said it was too far. One day Cara and Nanny and Grandad and Mamai are going to go out in a boat to see the table and chair properly. Then Grandad and Cara walked a little way up the mountain. Cara saw the Giant's cloak of purple heather lying over the mountain. Nanny and Cara tried to hear the Giant snoring but there were too many people and cars at Bunglas. And the midges were out and Nanny was scratching and cursing. So we all got back in the car and drove and drove and drove to Swords.<br />
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Cara and Liamy and Seamai and Katie all got excited to be back together and jumped and clapped and hugged. Then Cara and Nanny went to the Pavilions to get Cara new shoes - Cara got nice silver sparkly shoes with lights on. Cara's feet twinkle and sparkle and light up like coloured stars when she runs and skips and jumps. Nanny says Cara is like a fairy. Cara not a fairy. Cara just Cara. Then Nanny say Cara a grumpy boots. Cara not a grumpy boots or tired or a fairy. Cara just Cara. So Nanny got ice creams and we sat on a seat and had a rest and ate our lovely cones. Then we went to the playgound but Cara too tired so we came home and cuddled up nice and cosy and read stories until we went to sleep.<br />
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On Monday Cara put on her Peppa togs and Nanny took Cara to Skerries beach. It was a beautiful day and we made sand castles then broke them. We drew pictures in the sand and a big heart with our names and kisses in the middle. We paddle in the little pool and mashed the sand worm casings with our feet. They are squidgey! Then we sat at the edge of the sea and let the waves chase us. Cara is going to be a real wave chaser when she is big. But then Nanny said there were lots of jelliers about so we had to go away from the water. We went to the car and got dressed and then we bought cones and Cara sat in Nanny's seat and ate hers. Then we had to clean the car. Grandad gets mad at sticky messes in his car. Silly Grandad! Then we came home and had lunch and Nanny went off to her shed to 'work'. Cara thinks Nanny just drinks tea and reads books in her blue shed. Maybe she does. But that's ok. Cara went to the playground with Grandad. It was fun. And then it was time for stories and bed.<br />
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And then it was ANOTHER big day! And Cara went for her first ever time to the swimming pool. Cara had to wear a swimming hat and armbands. Nanny says swimming hats are great levellers. Everyone looks silly and can't be grumpy when they wear swimming hats. Cara held Nanny's hand and we walked to the edge of the water. 'It's beautiful. Nanny it's beautiful' Cara said. And Nanny cried. Silly Nanny! And Cara went in the little pool first and then the big pool where Nanny held Cara and didn't let go and bounced Cara up and down and we sang 'Nellie the Elephant'. Then we went in the Jacuzzi and Cara laughed and laughed at the bubbles tickling. Then we went in the Lazy River and Cara loved the way the water pulled Cara and Nanny around. Then the Wave Machine came on and Cara sat at the edge and let the waves catch her. It was SO fun. Then a bad thing happened. Nanny and Cara went to the showers and Nanny tried washing Cara's hair. And Cara cried and roared and cried and roared and all the people looked at Nanny as if she was trying to murder Cara. Nanny is no good with Cara's hair. Cara called out 'Mamai Mamai Mamai' and Nanny said 'I know I know I know' but she still kept washing. It was TERRIBLE. But then we got dressed and got a chocolate bar, so Cara felt happy again.<br />
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Nanny scratched a card and shouted 'Hooray!'. She won €25. So we went to a shop called Vinnies and Nanny bought a lump of books and Cara bought a pirate ship and a train and a tee shirt. Cara played for ages and ages with the toys in Vinnies and had nice chats with some people. Then we came home and Grandad took Cara to the Pavilions where Cara saw Katie in her work. 'Katie!' said Cara and ran and hugged her. Katie was delighted. Katie is Cara's friend. When Cara and Grandad came home Nanny was in bed. She said she was knackered. So Cara go to bed too. And we had stories. And Cara read 'The Gruffalo' to Nanny because Nanny was tired and Nanny said it was perfick. And Cara and Nanny talked about Mamai coming home and got excited. And now we have to go to sleep so we will have energy for Mamai.<br />
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See you tomorrow! Love youXXXXX<br />
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-32430422310339804502016-08-15T15:18:00.000-07:002016-08-15T15:18:52.771-07:00Diary of Cara Cunnyham aged 2 and 3/4....................<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My lovely Mamai Rachel is away out foreign in a mad hot
place on holliers, Cara is on holliers in Swords - staying with
Nanny and Grandad and Seamai and Liamy and Molly. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Cara meant to write a diary every night; that
way Cara will remember all the things I did and can tell Mamai all about it. But Cara is SO-O_O_O TIRED every night from running and
racing and laughing and talking and skipping and swimming and painting and swan
feeding and digging on the beach and going to the playground and dancing with
Nanny and blowing bubbles with Seamai and watching Dora The Explorer with Liamy
and calling to neighbours and going to the library and JCs and watering Nanny’s
garden and taking Molly for walks that take AGES. Nanny says she’s tired too!
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Last Friday Nanny and Grandad and me drove and drove and drove
until we got to Granny’s lane and then up to her house called Donegal. On the
way Cara seed a lump of windmills. Nanny and Cara think windmills are beautiful, like big giants guarding our country, twirling and swirling in the wind making electricity so we can watch Netflix and have light in the dark and cook nice
things to eat. Electricity is good. Cara not like some electric things. The Hoover. The lawnmower.
Hand-driers in toilets. They too noisy. Cara HATE Granny Teresa’s blender. It
is the noisiest yoke in the twenty six counties. We stayed in Drimreagh on
Friday night and Cara and Nanny saw Stephen’s chickens and Connie’s cows and sheep and dogs.
Cara wanted to take one of Stephen’s
chickens to bed. But Nanny said the chicken called a hen might lay an
egg on Blankie – so Cara left them in their own beds. Cara thought the Gruffalo
might be hiding in Connie’s shed cause Cara heard a big loud noise. Nanny said it
was just a cow. It didn’t sound like a cow. It sounded like a Gruffalo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Saturday we drove and drove and drove to
the place where the boat was to take us over to the island. Burtonport. Arranmore. It
was Cara first time on the boat. It was BRILLIANT. Cara was a bit scared of the
loud noises but Nanny and Grandad cuddled Cara so Cara didn't have to be scared. The wind blew
and blew and blew and Cara hair was flying around like Cara was on a high swing. Cara laughed and laughed and laughed. Cara liked the white bits the boat made
in the sea as it moved, Cara wanted to jump in and swim. Nanny
said it might be too cold. Anyway Cara's Peppa togs were in Granny’s house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Great Uncle Peter met us on Arranmore and took us to his
house. It is a very beautiful house in a very beautiful place. Nanny said it it was so beautiful it made her want to cry. Silly Nanny! There was a lump of
people inside the house and outside the house. Great Aunts
CronaandAnneandAgnesandBridandTeresa second cousins (or first cousins once
removed?)
SineadandNiamhandCillianandStephenandMichaelandEilishandSeannaghandAisling and
some non Cunnyham people too FrankandMaureenandClaireUrquhartandMichealandAnneFerry.
Nicola Doogan wasn’t there. Poor Nicola. They were all very nice to Cara, but Cara
was a bit shy. So Cara sat on Grandad’s knee and ate choccy biccies. They were
all talkingandtalkingandtalking and Brid was making everyone laugh. Brid is the
funniest person Cara knows. Even funnier than Nanny.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we all started our big walk around the island. Nanny
kept saying ‘OhMyGod Cara! Look at that! Isn’t that so beautiful.’ And Nanny
was right. She usually is. It was a good bright clear day and all the colours
and smells were sharp and clean. Except for the sheep poo and the bunny balls.
Nanny and Cara and Seannagh and Brid strolled along behind everyone else 'cause we
like to take our time and chat and admire the world. But then the wind got up –
too cold and blowy for Cara so Cara cried and wanted to go back to the house.
Nanny put Cara in the buggy and pushed Cara back; Nanny said she
didn’t mind not doing the walk ‘cause some of those paths looked fairly steep. Nanny is a bit of a
couch potato. But couch potatoes are cuddly. So that’s OK.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cara and Nanny pottered about, chatting and playing boules and Guess Who? and
Connect 4 (Cara’s rules – none of your
silly proper ones). Then everyone came back from the big walk – they were all a bit red and shiny and thirsty and happy. So they
all had wine or beer or water. Cara had a Caprisun. Then there was a big feast, beetroot falafel (Nanny said
‘Totes delish’) curry and rice and Naan bread that Cara called pizza. And
rhubarb crumble and ice cream that made Nanny make a funny moany sound because it
was so good. And there was more chats and laughs and Claire Urquhart and Cara
played a brilliant jumping game with the
boules. Claire is a lovely lady, very pretty and fun to be with. Claire used to play with Cara’s Aunty Eithne when they were little. Grandad told Cara that Claire
and Eithne would run away and hide on Mamai Rachel and Nicola Doogan
‘cause they were the big girls and wanted to do big girl stuff on their own.
Poor Mamai Rachel! Cara will never do that to her. Then Nicola Doogan came on the late
ferry. Everyone was happy to see her. It made the day perfick, just perfick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nobody sang. That was strange. The Cunnyhams love to sing and Nanny
says when Cara Cunnyham grows up she’ll be the finest singer in all Ireland. Maybe Cara
will sing a song with Mamai, just for ourselves then later maybe for other people.
Thinking of singing made me miss Mamai’s little voice right this minute, and
her pixie hair and her lovely smile and the smell of her and her fingers fixing
my hair. But Cara's not going to cry. Cara will have Mamai just for herself for a long long
time. Mamai promised. Just like 'Owl Babies' Mamais always come back. That’s
the rule. And Nanny told me too. And Nanny always tells the truth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When all was cleaned
up we walked down to the pier to catch the last ferry (that’s another word for
boat – amn’t I a clever Cara!) There was a lump of Cunnyhams on the boat, Cara felt sad for the people who weren’t
Cunnyhams. Crona and Peter stood at the wall watching the boat sail away. CaraI
waved and waved and waved. Cara hoped they weren’t too lonely after everybody. Nanny said they prob’ly went straight to
bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cara was worried all day ‘cause Blankie was in the car
on his own and maybe a sly old fox or A Swiper or a Gruffalo would take him.
(Yes, Blankie is male – he told Cara he is). But it was OKAY! HE WAS THERE! So Cara cuddled him and fell fast asleep. When we got back to
Drimreagh Grandad lifted Cara gentle out of the car and put on Cara nappy. Cara was so tired Cara fell asleep when Nanny was still reading The
Gruffalo.I GOT TO SLEEP IN NANNY’S BED ALL WEEKEND! YAY!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nanny is a bit of a lazybones in the mornings so Granda gets
up with me and makes my Ready Brek or sometimes my Weetabix and puts on my
Peppa Pig. Great Granny Teresa has no
Netflix for my Dora though, poor Great Granny, isn’t that very sad? Nanny says
if Great Granny Teresa was a little bit better she would watch Dora with me and
we could both learn to count in Spanish. She surely would said Nanny. Great Granny Teresa could do her
knitting and Cara’d watch Dora and have wee chats. Great Granny Teresa loved
chats. And crosswords. And hugs. And laughing. Nanny says Great Granny Teresa
was a brilliant hugger. Even better than her. Cara feels a bit sad she never had a proper chat
with that long ago Teresa. Sometimes Great Granny Teresa gets very sad and shakes
her head and cries. Cara wants to cry too. But instead Nanny showed Cara how to pat Granny’s
hand or maybe blow her a kiss to try to make her not sad. Sometimes Great
Granny Teresa gives a big laugh and her eyes are all twinkly. Only for a
little while; then her eyes look they have clouds in them and Cara know Great
Granny’s gone away, way way inside of her head. Nobody can go with Granny
Teresa to that place. She has to go on her own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cara only told you about two days of her holliers but Cara
has to stop talking and talking now because Cara is sleepy and Nanny wants to read her book. See you tomorrow xx<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-27099945651593627292016-04-11T07:14:00.000-07:002016-04-11T07:14:01.158-07:00I'm in love..............<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a miserable day in Swords today. The rain is
unrelenting, sky a brooding grey and it’s cold enough to warrant putting the heat on. The type
of weather that normally sends me to the edge of the abyss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not today though.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am ensconced in my beautiful blue she shed, my me
shed, tigin Eibhlin, and am head over heels in love with it. The only sounds
I can hear are the rain pattering on the roof, sporadic louder splashes of rainwater
spilling out of my house’s clogged gutters, and the soft hiss of gas from the
Superser. My shed is what has been missing all my life. My own space. Solitude. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I started dabbling in writing twelve years ago I
thought I had found the thing that had been missing in my life, my thing, my
passion; the medium through which I could communicate coherently with others, express my
world view. It seemed to fulfil that ‘what’s it all about?’’ hole for me at that stage in my life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, I recently realised that writing is, for me, is also an excuse to be on my own. To return to those times in childhood and adolescence
where I could lose myself in a book for hours on end, only emerging from the dreamlike trance books put me in when someone physically touched me, bringing me back from the
world the author had created for me. With the shed I have regained that solitude, and can use
it how I like; to read, to write, to think. I’m privileged to have been able to
indulge myself and buy this space, and for the first time ever I don’t feel
guilty about spending money on myself. It’s an investment in my mental health
as much as anything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m raved here in the past about the Tyrone Guthrie Centre
in Annaghmakerrig, Co. Monaghan. I love that place; the first time I arrived there
I felt like I had landed home. If I arrive there for a visit in an energized mood I can usually achieve really good
work, if I go there blocked it can help unblock me (unless I hit the Red Biddy
too hard! Alcohol blocks creativity for me). It is the deep stillness
of the place. A space to think. To be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m getting exactly that same sense of energy and home in the silence
of my shed. The quietness is nourishing my little fire of creativity, stopping
me rushing things and submitting too early; I feel the work I’m producing now
is a lot better than my pre she-shed work, my output is certainly up. There are
no banging doors in it, no ringing doorbells, flushing loos, thunderous poundings
up and down stairs; no blaring radios,
no babbling tvs, no strummin’ guitars pluckin’ banjos plinkin’ mandolins or
ripplin’ pianos. There are no hummin’ whistlin’, singin’ mutterin’ bargin’ males.
There is only my breath, the rain on the
roof, my fingers on the keyboard or pencil scratching across the page as I write
letters to make words that form sentences, slowly building something, all this underscored by the sibilant hiss of the SuperSer and the occasional rustle of
paper when I need to consult a book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In one word. Bliss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may well become a hermit. I suppose l’ll still come out
the odd day to play with yiz! If yiz will have me, that is. M’wah.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-25808401811571597222016-03-23T08:45:00.003-07:002016-03-23T08:45:29.209-07:00Brussels 22/03<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The horrendous events that occurred in Brussels on Monday
22/3/2016 horrified me; they didn’t surprise me - just made me sad. Sad for those who
lost their lives - including the suicide
bombers who were deluded into giving their lives for a cause that, to many, is incomprehensible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why am I not surprised? I’m female, Irish and European; I
know my gender’s, my country’s, my continent’s history, I know the extremes misogyny/religion/nationalism, and/or the perceived lack of a heard voice, humanity can commit. In both Ireland and Europe we are
familiar with the appalling cruelty humans are capable of - particularly when
we dehumanize others. There is no justification for depriving A.N. Other of the one thing that we have in common. In the words of the great Alan Bleasedale ' we all - 'live and breathe and fart after four lagers and lime'. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All those who died
have family – mothers, fathers, children or siblings perhaps, extended family
certainly, friends who love them; people who are hurting now because the other
human they cared for is gone, leaving that person sized hole in their lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An intolerance of the ‘other’, a lack of any attempt to ‘walk in my shoes’ can very quickly get out of hand – as History has shown us. It is time we grew up as a species – we should aim to follow the lead of
Antoine Leiris and stop hating; together ‘we are more powerful than all the World’s
armies’ <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/nov/17/bataclan-paris-victim-helene-muyal-husband-antoine-leiris-killers-open-letter">http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/nov/17/bataclan-paris-victim-helene-muyal-husband-antoine-leiris-killers-open-letter</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With those who lost loved ones yesterday, indeed on any day, I
empathise; as for the rest of us, let us not hate – it will lead us again into the abyss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-50078871330320134472016-02-28T03:17:00.000-08:002016-02-28T03:17:45.159-08:00Get on with it..............<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I met an old friend yesterday and we rambled for a while
together. He is in his seventies and hadn’t been well so we chatted about his
health for a while. He’s feeling ok but has to take meds now all the time. I
could see his vulnerability. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
’I didn’t think I’d ever feel
like this again’, he said. I knew what he meant. He had some mental ill-health
about ten years ago and I had helped him through it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
‘You’re frightened?’ I asked. He
nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
’It’s alright to be frightened.
Acknowledge it, then get on with the normal things you do.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
‘But I could be dying!’ he exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
’We’re all dying. It’s how we handle the fact
makes the difference.’ He nodded and I saw some of the trouble leave his face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Not for long though. We started
to discuss the election result, or rather non result.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
’I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Are
people that stupid and short-sighted?’ Do they not remember what Fianna Fail
did? Do they not realise that our children and grandchildren now have to live
abroad, away from us, because of their short sightedness? Their greed!’ He
continued venting and I teased him to calm down or he’d have a ‘banger’. He
laughed – a big shouty hearty laugh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
‘D’you know’ he said. ‘I meet two
fellas I used to work with regularly for a drink. Both of them ended up at the
top of the pile in their respective industries. One has a pension of about 60k
, the other about 80k. And they voted for Fianna Fail. Because they felt too much
had been taken from them by the FG/Labour coalition.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
‘Greed,’ I said, ‘pure greed. Still trying to
keep up with the Jones’ I suspect’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
‘That’s exactly it.’ He replied, ‘Bloody
fools. Selfish bloody fools. I thought the government were doing a fairly
decent job of cleaning up the mess. Well, I wash my hands of the whole damn lot
of them.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
We parted then and I walked on
thinking about how he felt. This man worked hard, paid all taxes and bills as
they fell due. With his partner he reared a family, educated them, helped them
out when they had to go abroad for work. One child is gay and chose to leave
because Ireland of that time was so stifling for anyone different. The second
child settled in Australia, has a good life, a partner and children. They don’t
come home much. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I saw a great tee shirt logo some
years back. It was the face of the iconic Peig Sayers (much hated by my
generation of Dubliners) and underneath it was the legend ‘Recession, Mo Thoin’.
It was the first time I ever got a laugh out of Peig! We have a great little
country, lots of resources and resourceful people. Whatever the outcome of
discussions over the next number of weeks for pity’s sake let there be no more
Civil War and grandstanding politics, no more egos and squabbling. We’re all
tired lads. Just get on with your bloody jobs and stop trying to keep up with
the Jones’.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-6052044921952868862016-02-10T05:37:00.001-08:002016-02-10T05:37:55.894-08:00Ash Wednesday and Heavy Breathers.......<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
My she shed is still a WIP so I removed myself to the
library in a nearby village today. It was a gorgeous morning here in North Co.
Dublin; very cold, but the quickly thawing ground frost left behind that nice
crisp air and a blindingly low winter sun hung in a hard blue sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a good bit of reading to do, so found myself a quiet
corner and began. There were a couple of students in the study area, and some
very young children on the lower ground floor chatting and laughing. I have, of
necessity, always been able to shut out the noise of the very young. A skill learned as the oldest of seven kids growing up in your average suburban semi-d.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After an hour or so I was deeply engrossed in my book but
became aware of somebody settling into the desk behind me. That was fine,
concentration briefly disrupted I checked emails and had a quick look on social
media. Then, when I deemed my fellow reader should be organised I tried to get
back to my book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SLoDG!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The noises emanating from the person were ridiculously
irritating. Snuffling, throat clearing, sighing, tutting and (worst of all)
very heavy breathing. I had to resist the urge to turn sharply and say ‘STOP
BREATHING!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave up my hope of
concentrating after ten minutes, when it became apparent that my fellow library
user was simply a noisy person, completely unaware of same. Some people need to
hear themselves breathing to make sure they’re still, well, breathing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I gathered together (quietly) my belongings I cast a
glance at my intruder. Elderly, male, bald and a little overweight; he had the angriest
looking cross marked in black ash on his forehead. It‘s Ash Wednesday and,
despite making pancakes yesterday, it hadn’t registered with me. As I passed I
stole a glance at the documents this man was working on. They appeared to be
applications for attendance at a local Catholic primary school. I wondered
about them. There has been a lot of chat in Ireland recently about parents
trying to get their children into the local school and failing to find a place because
preference is going to those baptised in the Catholic faith. A lot of parents are
choosing not to baptise their children now, and finding it difficult later, as the
Church is still the main patron of most schools in Ireland.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know this particular Catholic school. It has a great
reputation, and there are alternative schools in the area. But I’m a great believer
in kids going to the local school, the one their pals from crèche or their
estate go to. I have no idea if my heavy breather was judging parents as he
read their forms – but the memory of his blackened brow staring sternly at
these forms is a little unsettling – and of course the product of an over
active imagination. But still…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I came out onto the Main St as the local church was emptying
itself of its devotees. If an alien had landed this morning I think it might
have been bewildered as to why most of the humans it encountered appeared
elderly and marked with an angry thumb. Despite the warming sun I shivered. I
know ashes on ones forehead are supposed to be symbolise humility – but it just
doesn’t feel like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It feels like – ‘we are different’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s my main
problem with all organised religions, that - ‘we are different’ Not we are
better (although many espouse that) but look at us, we are different – and we
want to be the same in our difference. Am I making sense? Probably not. But I’ll
never, ever understand slavishly following any particular group of teachings –
when some of them are blatantly unfair and even at times downright cruel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
'Nuff said. Roll on me she shed! <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-82173546079464633182015-12-01T13:05:00.000-08:002015-12-01T13:05:34.995-08:00Chapter Two - 'The Letters'...........(title credit to Barbara Hegarty!)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right. So. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left here yesterday and posted a link on
Facebook to the blog on Grandad’s letter to Mam for her 21<sup>st</sup>. My
lovely cousin, Lisa Connolly, daughter of Mam’s sister – Norah, read the blog
and my comment on FB that I had nothing with my mother’s writing on it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lisa
informed me she had a letter Mammy wrote her when Lisa was living in San
Francisco. The letter is dated March 14<sup>th</sup> 1991. Six days before
Mammy died. When Lisa read the letter in
San Francisco Mammy was dead, and Lisa read it in the company of Phyllis Glynn,
a great friend of Mam’s, who had travelled to SF to spend time with her son.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lisa couldn’t rest easy after she told me about the letter.
My excitement was palpable on FB. And an excited Evelyn is an unstoppable force
of Nature! Up into the attic with my
lovely, lovely Lisa and she retrieved the letter. Read it. Bawled for all that
was lost. She told me to P.M. her my address. I told her not to post it,
I was terrified anything would happen to it. I had to have it, to hold Mammy
between my fingers again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t sleep, so pottered around the house – a little
writing, a little reading, a lot of thinking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the clock reached 7.30 a.m. I
hopped into the car and drove the twenty odd miles to Lisa’s house, much of it
down a winding country road (where bloody truckers don’t think the ‘dip your
headlights’ rule applies to them). When I got near the house I realised it was
probably a bit too early to have mad relatives dropping in for breakfast so I
pulled into a service station and checked Facebook to see if there was anyone
stirring in Lida’s house. Yes! She ‘liked’ a post of mine so she was up. I
drove the last few miles and rang the doorbell. Lisa has three gorgeous
children all early to mid teens and three magnificent LARGE dogs. I had them
all as wound up as meself!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lisa produced ‘the letter’ and let me hold it. She forbid me
to open and read it until we both had a cup of tea in front of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mammy’s sloping left-handed writing on the envelope. I
sniffed it. I could SMELL her! The unmistakeable smell of talc. Of love. Of caring. Oh Sweet Jesus
Tonight!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could feel her energy between my fingers. Lisa’s daughters were
going mad. The school bus was due and they weren’t going to get to see my
reaction when I read 'the letter'. Just as I opened the envelope and unfolded three
A4 ruled, feint and margin, foolscap pages pages the bus arrived and the girls had to leg
it. They wer raging – they didn’t get to take snaps. So I promised a detailed
account. Here yiz are.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started to read it aloud and my voice caught. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Don’t read
it aloud if you can’t’ said Lee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No, I have to. I have to hear her in the
room.’ I read on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is the transcribed text of the letter plus the original
document <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bons Secours Hosp.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Brush Script MT"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(S<s>.W.)</s></span><b><s><span style="font-family: "Brush Script MT"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ballymun</span></s></b><b><s><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Glasnevin</span></s></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "Brush Script MT"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hill</span></b><s><o:p></o:p></s></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 108.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(Dad’s writing for Ballymun and Hill)<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 288.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">14<sup>th</sup> March ‘91<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dear
Lisa,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">How
are you chicks? I believe you are away on holidays but by the time Phyllis gets
to you - you’ll be back.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Well here I am back in hospital –
but you’re not to worry ‘cause I’m fine and coming on – it has nothing to do
with the tumours. My head is marvellous – not an ache or pain. But my breathing
is desperate. My lungs and chest are all congested and I sound like a train
with all the wheezing and whistling. Judy was sitting beside me the other night
and she says (sic) “Jesus – name that tune in 3.” You know Judy’s sense of
humour.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Lisa wants to know if I’m in for an
oiling.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> But all joking aside, I’m in great form
and that’s the main thing and Lisa – I’m not depressed and I don’t care about
anything physical, as long as I’m not suffering from depression. As long as I
live I’ll never forget the ten weeks of <u>hell</u>
at Christmas and before and after it. It was like being in a deep black pit,
that I couldn't get out of. I know it was terrible for everyone – it was the
worst Christmas we all ever must have had (sic) – however its all behind us now
– T.G. and pray it will never come back.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I discovered a lovely saint, his
name is St. Peregrine – he’s the patron saint of cancer sufferers and he’s
working miracles in my life. Say a little prayer each day to him Lisa, and spread his devotion for me.
Nobody here heard of him. I’m trying to get you his leaflet and believe me he
was no saint in the beginning, he did terrible things – but in the latter part
of his life became a cancer victim himself and there are wonderful miracles
attributed to him.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Phyllis will fill you in on all the
family news. Judy and Bill hae bough a house out in Killbarrack(sic) – and the
final signing is 30<sup>th</sup> april. She’s delighted. It’s a grand house – I
think it was £42,000, so another one for the high jump.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Evelyn has moved in with Jim and
they have rented a house out in Lucan.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Aisling is home during the week and
stays with Owen (sic) at weekends, so little by little they are fi<u>na</u>lly making lives for themselves. T. G.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me</span></u></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <u>sons</u>, well I just can’t get
rid of them. They don’t know haow to boil any eggs. However they’ll learn
bloody fast – can you ever see any of them starving.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Seamus
is still ‘my hero’ the auld ‘boll---‘ is doing everything for me as I’ve got a
lot weaker.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d
say our Phyllis will have a ball. Her little new house is gorgeous. Ideal for
herself and John. She ha had a few ding-dongs in it but unfortunately I haven’t
been able to go as the night time I’m too shagged to go anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My
bedtime is 9.30.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m
not going to close this letter as I’ll jot down other little bits od info. As
the days go on. I’m going to give Phyllis this note on Thursday.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">_________________________________________________<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By
the way I saw ‘Beaches’ on Sunday, Louise myself and Lisa watched it on video,
well the 3 of us laughed and cried our way through it. I thought it was one of
the best films I’d ever seen. I just love Bette Midler.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(switches
to Dad’s writing)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Just came in to see ‘Big Mama.’ She
asked me to add a P.S. So this is it +P.S.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Seamus<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(overleaf)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Thursday<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lisa,
have to close as Phyllis is collecting this. Love to Mary and baby abnd she is
gorgeous and of course Noel. I’m mad about my chopping boards. Judy has her eye
on one but she can F off.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Love
Liz<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I love you<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX8ipUhLBlA2bPXBqLuDZ041OQ5MC5uLW3dlXHN7kHULOcY5HSma46GgNd5QzkujzArdJOAaRr6wChceCfFuLA_WtIZQ-f2jSfQLoANZ29Hlo8aUKwLwYqH0QNymPpEdGEpoz1m-ji9iMi/s1600/Envelope+Mam+to+Lisa+C+Mar+1991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX8ipUhLBlA2bPXBqLuDZ041OQ5MC5uLW3dlXHN7kHULOcY5HSma46GgNd5QzkujzArdJOAaRr6wChceCfFuLA_WtIZQ-f2jSfQLoANZ29Hlo8aUKwLwYqH0QNymPpEdGEpoz1m-ji9iMi/s320/Envelope+Mam+to+Lisa+C+Mar+1991.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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So there you are. I got Mammy back today. That is the power of the written word. I could hear her, see her in my mind's eye arguing with Dad over whether the hospital was Glasnevin or Ballymun. yanking the letter back from him and saying 'Now, see what you made me do,' at the little tear on page three. I could smell her.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Write something tonight for someone you love. shove it in a drawer. In years to come they will unearth it and you will be back with them. It is said we die twice. Once when our physical body ceases breathing, and again when our name is uttered for the last time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Elizabeth Kennedy Walsh 1937 -1991 will live here until d'Internet explodes. And some night, somewher in our little planet an idlly surfing finger will click in and Liz will leap off the page - fully formed again - her laughing living lovely self.</div>
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We love you Mam. </div>
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-35834708777225404812015-11-30T10:34:00.001-08:002015-11-30T10:40:44.841-08:00'That's my girl!'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Finally got around to deciphering a letter my maternal grandfather sent my mother for her 21st birthday in 1958. The cheque for 21 dollars he sent would have been worth roughly £7 ten shillings. A pint of plain cost 1 shilling 6d back then, she could have bought almost a hundred pints, (the sums working that out nearly killed me, and yes, I know it's easy...). Except she didn't drink back then, women rarely frequentd pubs, many of them were men only, and women earned on average 48% less than their male couterparts.<br />
<br />
Grandad was a typesetter with the Irish Independent, he went to Detroit in the 50s to gain experience on a new litho machine operating in The Freeman's Journal. He lived there for a number of years and, times being what they were, didn't get home often. UncleTommy was 15 at the time of the letter and he and my mother clashed constantly. I'm quite sure it was her fault - she had a ferociously quick temper, like her own mother. Tommy was more like Grandad; a funny, gentle, peace keeping man.<br />
<br />
Mam and Dad (Seamus) married in October the following year. Thankfully Grandad came home for the wedding. The letter kickstarted a novel I've been working on - on and off, for a number of years, it's based on the time Grandad was in Detroit, 'cept I'm giving him an affair with a younger American female journalist! G'wan the Grandad!.<br />
<br />
All of the Kennedys of Glandore Road are dead now, and all barring Grandma died young. Mammy only got another 33 years, not the 79 Grandad wished for her. Tommy was the last to go, he died a few years ago. I discussed the novel with him before he died and, while none of us have the faintest idea what Grandad's life was like in Detroit, Tommy approved of my granting Grandad a tempestuous love affair. If I ever finish it it will e dedicated to The Kennedys of Glandore Road.<br />
<br />
See text of letter and original below. Any errors mine.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;">Sunday<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;">My darling Elizabeth,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> I am sending this a wee bit early just so that if there is something special you wish to buy for your ‘21<sup>st</sup>’ you will have it in good time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> The cheque for twenty one dollars is to represent a dollar for each year. You have made me so proud to be able to say ‘that’s my girl!’. And proud of you, I really am - and always shall be, because I know you will never do anything to make me feel otherwise about you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> It seems such a short time since you were just a wee baby. The years are flying and my earnest wish is that yourself and Seamus will have as happy a life as your Mam and I have had, and that you may be blessed with as lovely a family as God has given to us. My one regret is that I am not with you in person to wish you a Happy Birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> Now, I know I should not, particularly in this letter, strike what may seem a discordant note, I am going to ask you to do one little thing for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> I know that Tommy and yourself do have little differences of opinion, and upset each other from time to time. Don’t forget, that in doing so you can upset your Mammy even more so than yourselves. Now I am laying blame nowhere, it’s just one of those things, and I know that Tommy and you will get together for my sake and be real good pals. I know the difference in your ages makes that difficult but you will both do it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> You know honey, when you are separated from your family – it is then, and only then, that you really appreciate each and every member of the family. I know you both love each other deeply, all you have to do is to show it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;">So now ‘left arm’ – for that’s as useful to me as my ‘right arm’, loads of love and I hope you have a wonderful birthday- at least another 79 to follow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;">Dad xxxxx</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 107%;"> PS I should also say thanks to Mam for giving you to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-45120469058935981012015-11-28T08:14:00.001-08:002015-11-28T08:14:15.905-08:00Psychoanalysing meself - it's all our Judy's fault........<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I've been feeling well lately, contented. I'm working on something
I'm enjoying and feeling hopeful for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I know these November days are short, can be grey and depressing.
Cold days and nights, or worse - that constant drizzly rain, can confine one indoors. But as I
sit by my fire, house quiet for once, knowing where all my loved ones are - I
cannot help but feel content. I'm trying not to brood on a past I cannot change
nor worry about a future I have no control over. Then I started to
think.............<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I have long wondered why Spring is my worst time of the year. From
late March I often feel a huge sadness building in me. Why, when the natural
world is gearing up to its brief magnificent season do I feel at my lowest? All
of the worst bouts of long lasting depression I suffered occurred between late
April and July.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But I love gardening, love sitting in the sun like a big fat lazy
cat. So why, when I should be anticipating great pleasure, do I often feel
incredibly tense, anxious and low?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was born in May 1961, first surviving child to my parents. Their
first child, my stillborn brother, was delivered at eight months gestation in
April 1960, a huge shock for the young couple who had eagerly awaited his
birth. Mam had been taking the anti-morning sickness medication that was later
shown to have caused Thalidomide. The baby was ten days dead before he was
delivered, sadly he was also malformed. My mother never saw her baby's body.
Dad did, but he never talked about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So when I came along thirteen months later their anxiety levels
must have been very high. They poured every bit of love they had into me, and I
blossomed. Mam quickly became pregnant again and my first beloved sister, Judy, was born in April 1962. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">At that time women were ‘confined’ in hospital for up to five days
after the birth of a child. I was eleven months old, my father had to work so I
was sent over to my beautiful Aunt Norah, Mam’s sister, to be cared for. There
is a picture of me standing in a playpen at the gate of Norah’s house.
Apparently it was the only thing that quietened me. I would stay there for
hours looking up the road, waiting for my world to come back to me. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">AND SHE
CAME!!!!!!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When I read Owl Babies by Martin Waddell to children I tell
them ‘Mammys ALWAYS come back’. Of course, in reality, sometimes they can’t.
Serious illness or death can pull a mother from a child. Mam didn’t die until I
was twenty nine, but the wrench was as bad as if I were five. And she died on
March 20<sup>th</sup>. Which would explain my feelings of grief around that
time since then. But what about before 1991? I reckon that when I sense the
days warming and lengthening, and see things growing, it reminds me of my anxious vigil
at the gate in April 1962. And I must have been miffed that someone smaller and
cuter than me usurped my position as ‘baby’ in the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Judy once said she didn’t always feel loved at home. Perhaps Mam
and Dad overcompensated with me – afraid I’d be jealous of the new arrival.
Apparently I did once balance a large 1d coin on her lips and stood, waiting to
see what would happen when she opened her mouth! I don’t remember being jealous
of her. Envious yet – she was (is) incredibly beautiful, with a stillness and
serenity about her I longed to emulate. I wrote this for her some Christmases
ago. It’s not great poetry. But it’s heartfelt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Childhood
M<b>emories#2<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Winter
1965<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Judy<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> You were the most
beautiful creature -<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Flawless
skin,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">huge
trusting eyes<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">watching
from<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">the
bolster on the double bed<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Its
creaky iron frame<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">bathed
in the light of<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">the
glowing Sacred Heart<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">that
pinked<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">candy
striped brushed cotton sheets,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">blankets,
<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">a
maroon eiderdown <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">topped
by a Gardá great coat;<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">its
buttons left an imprint on your face<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">insignia
of peace on chubby cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">You
whispered -<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">‘Let’s
play the drawing-on-the back game,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Me
first.’<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
loosened your pyjama top<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">and
sketched a scene, <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">plump
childish fingers intent on detail<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">hoping
you wouldn’t guess it right<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">and
I could crow <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">‘No!’<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">‘Now
me’, I whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But
you were sleeping.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
spooned in behind you<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And
lying still inhaled <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Pears
soap and Cusson’s talc.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Now,
if I close my eyes and deeply breathe<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I
can almost feel that moment<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">That
safety in our kingdom -<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">our
hot water bottle warmed <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">double
bed<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<b><sup><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 8.0pt;">Evelyn Walsh, Christmas 09<o:p></o:p></span></sup></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<b><sup><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 8.0pt;"><br /></span></sup></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So our Juders, it’s all your fault I am a moanin’ Minnie. But
I am very glad you are my sister – let’s blame the parents!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-12416545274005761982015-11-19T01:28:00.000-08:002015-11-19T01:28:05.385-08:00One Good Teacher<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The infamous ‘they’ say all you need in life is one good
teacher. Someone to ignite a passion in you for something that will succour you
through dark days and make good days even better. I’ve been lucky, I had several
excellent teachers. My mother, of course, was a marvellous mentor and in my formal
education a few stand out - Mrs Curran in Mother Of Divine Grace Primary School
in Finglas, Mrs Rigney and Miss Ryan in the
Dominican College in Eccles St. Top of
the class for me though was my beloved Miss Kirby (later Coffey) in sixth
class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It cannot have been easy being a teacher in ‘60s/’70s
Ireland. Schools were run with an iron fist by religious orders, class sizes
could reach fifty in crowded urban areas, corporal punishment was commonplace
and the curriculum dripped with De Valera’s image of Ireland. It bore little
resemblance to life lived in suburban North Dublin. The State Censor made sure
our little minds weren’t polluted with any foreign filth. Schools had many
teachers who were, quite simply, in the wrong job. Economic necessity and lack
of opportunity trapped them in classrooms with children about whom they cared
less and less with the passing of each bitter year. It is hard to inspire when
you don’t give a damn yourself. Control was the key in getting through the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people are born to teach though. Miss Kirby was one of
those wonderful people. She came into my life when I was eleven, on the cusp of
that leap from what once was to what may someday be. She saw my potential,
offered me more challenging material, brought me books from her own collection
to point me in the right direction. She was from (I think) Co. Kerry and her
tastes were more rural than mine, but I enjoyed the books she brought me, I
particularly enjoyed the way she spoke to me – as if I was already grown-up. I
blossomed under her tutelage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In October 1973 she set us English homework. We were to
write to her as if she were a visitor from another country, and tell her
something about St. Patrick’s Cathedral. We had been working on a project about
it and I had become fascinated with Jonathan Swift, St Patrick’s most famous
Dean. I sat down with my copy and pencil. I loved, still love, the sound of a
pencil scratching across the blank page, and I wrote and wrote. I described a time travelling adventure I had
with friends, Andrea and Ken Kelly; how we had travelled back in time and been
befriended by Jonathan Swift (who asked us to call him Jonath). We lived with
him for a while, met his lady friends Stella and Vanessa, toured about early
eighteenth century Dublin with him and he discussed his writings with us. Ten
copy pages later cramp in my hand forced me to time travel us back to 1973 and The
Ha’Penny Bridge. I was amazed that almost two hours had passed since I began
and was enormously proud of myself. I hoped I’d get a gold star for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to wait a few days for the copies to be returned to
us. Miss Kirby placed it on my desk and patted the cover. I can still feel the
butterflies I got as I opened the copy. At the end of the essay were THREE gold
stars, and in red pen underlined twice Miss Kirby had written ‘Come to me,
CHILD!! For your just reward!!! Find out who painted Stella’s portrait.’ I glowed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Miss Kirby made the most enormous fuss of me. I was sent to
each fifth and sixth class to read out my essay. I died inside at this, but did it. Miss Kirby asked one of the mothers, who worked in an office, if she
could type up my essay. Ken Kelly, who was a talented artist, sketched St
Patrick’s on cardboard and we cut it out and stuck it onto the typed pages as ‘illustrations’.
Ms Kirby sent the essay to the Dean of St Patrick’s, and told him about our
project. He visited the class to look at our work and to shake my hand. He was a lovely
man and we were all surprised. We thought Protestants were completely different
to us, but the Dean looked just like everybody’s Grandad! He was a kindly
gentleman and enthused greatly over our work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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I went off the boil intellectually in secondary school and I
didn’t return to creative writing until I hit my forties. But I have never forgotten Miss
Kirby, her interest in me and the love she gave me for the written word. One
Good Teacher.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-59613336660174009552015-01-12T22:11:00.002-08:002015-01-12T22:11:41.155-08:00On snoring.....................<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I love the Jemser dearly. He loves me even knowing all my bad bits. What's not to love in somebody like that? But SLoDG I may yet do time over that man's snoring.<br />
<br />
Lots of people snore. I've even been told I snore myself on occasions. But the Jemeser is the King of the Snorers. If Snoring was an Olympic Sport then the Jemser would have brought home gold for Ireland for the last forty years - that's rougly ten gold medals - guaranteed. When we moved in together first I found a quick puck on his shoulder was sufficient to turn him over and give my poor battered ears some respite. He was a slender man then and, despite a broken nose and a deviated septum, his not carrying excess weight meant the snoring was more or less bearable unless he'd had a fierce feed of drink,<br />
<br />
But as middle age approached he started to put on weight and ended up with a comfortable pot belly. The snoring got worse and it was musical beds in the house most nights, one or the other of us always ending up on the couch. If he'd been out for a few drinks he didn't even bother climbing the stairs, knowing he would be booted out of the bed within minutes of landing in it. I used to get frightened some nights listening to him. He might be lying on his back and snoring really loudly. Then he would stop breathing. Like - completely. His mouth would hang open for a few seconds and then his jaw would start to move like a fish's does when it's out of water. He'd then start to draw his knees up towards his chest (disturbing my nice little nest in the process). Just when I'd be about to belt him to make him wake up and breathe he would emit this awful gagging ack-ack-ack sound followed by an auk-auk-auk and his knees would slide back down the bed again. Then the whole process would start over again.<br />
<br />
So, almost a decade ago, he went to a specialist who arranged for him to have a sleep test. The nurses were horrifed by what they heard and I instantly had their sympathy. He was supposed to go back and arrange to get this machine that helped you breathe properly at night and he was told to lose weight. He did lose a good bit of weight and as the snoring lessened again he didn't bother about the machine. If the snoring got bad on occasions I'd buy him a steroidal nasal spray which seemed to lessen the noise<br />
<br />
In the last two years though he regained all the weight he'd lost and the snoring is the worst I've ever heard it. I cannot stay in a room when he is snoring. The noise penetrates my skull and I find it the most irrritataing noise ever. I swear, I really do feel like stabbing him some nights. Anything to make that infernal racket stop. It's so bad I can hear it all over the house at night - no matter what room he is sleeping in. Then I'm cranky because I can't sleep with the noise and he's not getting a decent nights rest becuase he isn't getting enough oxygen into his system to make him feel rested. So you have two cranky middle aged people sniping at each other all day.<br />
<br />
So he took himself off to the specialist again last month. He's been told to lose weight again; they now realise that the vast bulk of snoring and sleep apnoea problmens are caused by weight issues alone. In conjunction with that he is to be ftted with an orthodontic gumshield that will hold his mouth in such a position that it is impossible to snore. I cannot wait for this device to arrive, it's going to cost in the region of a thousand euro but, you know what - it's cheaper than a divorce! And we can hopefully share a bed again.....................<br />
<br /></div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3176381632546007211.post-48812332857616649252014-12-19T22:56:00.002-08:002015-01-02T20:19:47.010-08:00A Story involving Children, A Lost Dog, Starlings and Santa’s Sleigh…..a best seller!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I work as a part time childminder for two different
families. On Mondays and Tuesdays I have my gorgeous girlies - aged 6, 5 and 3; Wednesday and Friday afternoons I have my best buddies-aged 12, 10 and 6. They are all great kids
and all attend Gaelscoil Bhriain Boroimhe in Applewood, Swords. My best buddies
are members of a relocated South African family - all of my buds were born in Ireland,
and they speak both English and Irish (and fair play to their mother for
mastering Irish to be able to help them with homework – she has better Irish
than 99% of our population) with a delightful Afrikaans’s accent. They family blonde,
sallow-skinned and beautiful.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Thursday night last I was sitting at home
idly scrolling through Facebook when I spotted a picture of a dog that looked
remarkably like Charlie, new pet (with the smelliest farts in Ireland), of my
best buddies. This dog had been found near Airside in Swords, Dublin, and
looked very plaintive in the photo.. He had been taken in by a family and they'd posted his image on a local ‘Things For Sale, Swap or Free’ page in the hope someone in the
area would recognise him. I mentioned it to the Jemser and he said <o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Sure ring your best buddies’
mother and let them know.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it was late and I didn’t want to disturb
them so I left it. The whole thing went completely out of my head on Friday morning
– until I got a text from me buddies’ Mam asking me something, and mentioning
that she’d left the side gate open as Charlie had done a runner. The family only got
Charlie five weeks ago - from another nice home; but he is unused to the area
and apt to bolt to explore if one leaves the front door open for even a second. The kids aren’t used to this yet and
so forget to be careful. Plus they’re kids. He had gotten out on the odd
occasion before Thursday but they’d always managed to catch him. But he went AWOL Thursday evening
- the children were heart broken and very worried. Losing a pet is hard enough
on adults, but there is a very special bond between children and their pets, I suppose because children’s lives are - for the most part, carefree; so any little anxiety hits them
harder. The children absolutely adore Charlie and have showered him with
affection since he came into their lives, they play with him constantly when at
home, and he is mad about them all. The parents are incredibly loving busy people but hadn’t taken Charlie to the vet yet for chipping, nor had they gotten around to
buying a dog tag. That’s first thing on their list this morning!<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘OMG!’
texted me to her,‘saw him on FB!At least I think it was him. I’ll get kids to
confirm and if it’s him we’ll collect him.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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She couldn’t access FB in work to check if it
was Charlie so I popped onto the FB page and posted that I thought
I knew the owners and would be in touch later. I was right excited going up to me
best buddies’ house. I had a little Christmas present for each of them and
planned to take them out to eat as a special Christmas treat. I love treating
kids, love their faces when something different happens to them. Oh! to be a
child again – to still have that sense
of wonderment and joie de vivre. Mind you, I do try me best to be tuned into
it. I had the laptop open onto that lovely picture of Charlie on FB, ready and waiting hard for the scholars coming in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The ten year old was first
through the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Hi Ev-eh-lin, Charlie ran away
yesterday – is he back?’ Love that child’s accent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘No….But’, I raised my right hand, palm out towards him,
palm outwards,‘look at this. Is that Charlie?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Yes. That’s my dog.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Well then, he’s found. He’s safe
in a nice family’s house.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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His face went through every
emotion in ten seconds flat and ended in sheer unadulterated joy as he fist
pumped, jumped up and down , shouting<o:p></o:p></div>
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’ My dog. She found my dog. The
other two landed in through door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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’What? What?What?’ That lovely
blossoming twelve year old, her face a little anxious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Charlie, Ev-eh-lin found Charlie.
Look.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her face lit up like the
twinkliest Christmas tree ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘What? What?’’ She was confused
momentarily.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Look. Look at his picture.' I put my arm around her, drew her to the laptop. 'It’s
him, he was found – I didn’t find him, I just spotted it on Facebook. I have contacted
the lady who found him and I’m waiting on a text or phone call to tell us where
Charlie is.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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More jumping and fist-pumping and -<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Ev-eh-Lin you are the best childminder ever’.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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This despite my protestations
that I hadn’t actually done anything – just luckily spotted their dog and joined
the dots. The six year old decided I was magic. In my Story Queen persona I am
magic – and he likes that idea. <o:p></o:p></div>
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‘And I’m taken yiz to Burger King
as a special Christmas treat. And you’re even allowed dessert after dinner.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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The joyous whoops continued. Then I gave them
their pressies – books of course, John Green and Chris O’Dowd for the twelve
year old, David Walliams for the ten year old ,and Emer Martin and co-writers
for the six year old - along with a magic set - the younger they are the less
they regard books or clothes as ‘proper’ presents. One of my gorgeous girlies
went into meltdown earlier in the week because I had gifted her a fabulous dressing
up dress which looked stunning on her. Deep blue crushed nylon velveteen with a
white fur trim and a long fur trimmed cloak, tiara and wand included!<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Y’didn’t even get us a toy’ she
huffed initially, throwing <u>guna</u> on floor. <span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Her mother was mortified. The child’s a child.
It happens.</span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> Back to me best buddies. As they opened their pressies and thanked
me I kept an eye on FB – lots of comments and messages flying to and fro about
our Charlie. The kids were highly entertained as I read them out. </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">After the excitement had calmed
down somewhat and they each had a little play on the X Box we set out for BurgerKing. I have
a Christmas CD in the car and we sang-along as we drove. I felt all fuzzy and
warm inside – like a little girl on Christmas morning when she knows, just knows,
everything is going to be perfect. No one will fight, no one will shout in
anger, everybody in her family will be happy all day long. No-one will get
drunk and ruin everything. There will be love.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We got to the fast food joint and
the kids picked what they wanted. They messed with paper crowns and a little
Christmas decoration as we waited for the food. They talked. I listened. We
laughed at silly things. It was fun. As we ate our grub I noticed through the
window a huge murmuration of starlings roiling through the sky as the hard
bright winter’s evening drew to a close. I pointed them out to the children and
we chatted about it. Then ‘what to my wondering eye should appear’ - behind the
starlings and very, very high up, but something that looked so like Santa’s
sleigh it was incredible. Of course, it was a plane - and its angle and whatever
way the setting sun caught it gave it that mysterious pinkish silhouette.
We were all gob-smacked. A magical ten seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘It can’t be him. It’s too soon.
I only sent my letter today.’ Six year old buddy looked a bit worried.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘You’re right. It’s a plane – but
doesn’t it look lovely with all the starlings flying about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
‘Yes. But Ev-eh-lin. It’s not
Santa.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘No. You’re right.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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We went home then and he showed
me some of his magic tricks. Watch yer back Derren Brown. The lady who was caring for Charlie phoned just before I
left me buddies' house and they’ll all be
reunited this morning. I’ll batter their Da if he doesn’t send me a picture of
them with their beloved animal. I won’t batter their Ma, because it’s always the Das’s
forgettorys that causes these things,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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I had a brilliant day. Happy
Christmas yiz all.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Evhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04336006621499332354noreply@blogger.com0