Back In The Saddle...

 

I came out to my she-shed for the first time in eleven months this morning - to write. There 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.

This is why I write.

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.  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.  

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  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!

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.

 ‘It’s a whoor of a game’ he’ll claim after a bad back nine, tossing his golf clubs aside. This happens regularly. 

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!

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. 

Mind you it would help if I finished things!

 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.

 

So.  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.

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.

Above all never ever give up. BELIEVE!!

The Jameses, Seamuses, Seamais (fada yerself), Seamaishins, Hamish, Shems, Shemos etcetera, etcetera

 

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.

A lively debate ensued.

I digress.

It’s my blog I can digress if I want to. Nobody is obliged to read.

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.

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.

This confusion over nomenclature is not entirely of my making. My father is a James referred to as  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.

 

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.

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.

 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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

And nobody ever mixed him up with a father, brother or son.

Except when he was a Wally.

Deleted Post

 Got into a little trouble over last post so deleted it. Sigh.

The Incredible Tale of MeejahLittle...AGAIN

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.

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. 

MeeJahLittle didn't wait around to work this out - off he ran shrieking to find MeeJahBig.

'Oh! MeejahBig' he said, 'the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'
'Why how do you know?' asked MeejahBig
'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.
'Oh Lord! Come then, let us run as fast as we can,' said MeejahBig. And off they ran to find MeejahBigger .

'MeejahBigger! MeejahBigger! The sky is falling, the sky is falling,' screeched MeejahsLittleandBig
'How do you know?' asked MeejahBigger.
'Well, MeejahLittle told me!' squawked MeejahBig 
'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
'Lord save us!' cried MeejahBigger, 'We must run as fast as we can.'. And off they ran 'til they found MeejahBiggerAgain.

'Oh! MeejahBiggerAgain,' they caterwauled 'the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'
'How do you know' gasped MeejahBiggerAgain.
'Why MeejahsBigAndLittle told me' cried MeejahBigger.
'MeejahLittle told me' squawked MeejahBig.
'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

'Lord between us and all harm!We must run, we must run!' harumphed MeeJahBiggerAgain. And they ran and they ran until they found MeeJahNormous

.
'MeeJahNormous!MeeJahNormous!The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' they all roared
'How do you know?'queried MeeJahNormous
'MeeJahsLittleToBigger told me!' harumphed MeejahBiggerAgain
'MeeJahsLittleToBig told me too' cried MeeJahBigger
'MeeJahLittle told me first' squawked MeejahBig
'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.

'We better tell the people on the edge' decided MeeJahNormous. 'It's our duty.'

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
 'The sky is falling, the sky is falling' and then fell down, down, down  into the abyss.

 And all this from the foolish shrieking of MeeJahLittle.

The End

Never have books been more important.........

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!

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  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.  They were home at Christmas and that will have to do for now.

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.  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’.

I smiled when I heard in a vox pop on radio yesterday - 'books aren't an essential service'. OH YES THEY ARE! 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.

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, and by circumstance both familial and societal. 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.

 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.

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  https://gutterbookshop.com/ in Temple Bar Dublin and Des Kenny of https://www.kennys.ie/.

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the ....

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party

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.

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  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.

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.

My family have been lucky in some ways. Son*1 (25) SMASHED his left leg on January 3^rd 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.

 And it's working

 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.  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.

I’ll miss stepdaughters*1 and *2 of course. And our grandchildren. But I went for a virtual walk with  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.

As long as the Internet doesn’t get Covid-19 and collapse EVERYTHING WILL BE OK!

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 -

Kids

Our SuperHeroes

WWWashYourHands

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

‘Wash your hands

Do do deh do deh do

Wash your hands

Do do deh etc

Wash Your Hands

                                                             Glan do Laimh                                       (fada yerself!)

Do do deh do deh do

Glan do Laimh

Do do etc

Glan do Laimth

Lavos Manos

Do do deh do deh do’

Etc etc etc in whatever language you like

I made them smile, so did their parents.

I felt good.

Look after each other and be kind.

Get Calm - then carry on

Where on Earth do I start?

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.

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.

Ireland is a small country. We’re a close people. Most families will be touched, in some way, by worry and  grief over the coming months. 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.

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.

I’ll blog something cheerier later. I feel much better with that off my chest!

Get calm – then carry on    

Tara - Seat of The High Kings

In the deep gentle silence of Co. Meath lies Tara; a royal place, a sacred place, a special place for us Celts since roughly 4,000 years BC.

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. 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!

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. Samhain is a time for ghouls and ghosts, witches and wonders, it is a time when it was believed Aos Si (spirits or fairies) could move with greater ease from their world into ours (if you are a gaeilgeoir please excuse my lack of fadas). I met none of these beings on my gentle amble around the site, given Gormflaith's reputation I'd rather not meet her spirit!

 I did meet some imps from England, Dublin and Northern Ireland though - who gloried in running up and down the slopes of Tara.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.

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 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.

Enough philosophizing and talking pure shite!

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.

You’ll come away feeling thoughtful and rejuvenated.

 Promise.

 https://hilloftara.com/

Diary of Cara Cunnyham aged 3.916667 years (roughly)...............

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.

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.

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.

We went to the pond at Skerries Mills. 

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.

 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.

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.

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.

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.    

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

---

 [EW1]

#RiotDublin

Where to begin?

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.

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!

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.

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.


High Fives and Big Hugs to everyone involved. I love yiz!!  

A Bad Dose of Trumpitis...........

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.

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.

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. 

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.

But I’m really really going to try………..

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…………

Remembered, not Forgotten.............

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.

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.

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.

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

                                                              

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.

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.



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.

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.

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.

I hope it won't be another thirty years before I see the Walshie cousins again.

Pretending to Fly......

I had a gorgeous day today; actually I had a great week, month, summer - but that's another blog.

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.

We went to the lovely skerriesmills.ie 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.

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.

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.

 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.

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.

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.

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.

And  we need the breathing of course - don't forget d'aul breathing!

Diary #2 of Cara Cunnyham aged 2 and 3/4..................

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

See you tomorrow! Love youXXXXX
  

Diary of Cara Cunnyham aged 2 and 3/4....................

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.

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! And she’s only looking at me ! 

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

.

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.

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

I'm in love..............

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.

Not today though.

Why?

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

In one word. Bliss.

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.

Brussels 22/03

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.

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'. 

 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. 

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’ http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/nov/17/bataclan-paris-victim-helene-muyal-husband-antoine-leiris-killers-open-letter

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.

Get on with it..............

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.

’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.

‘You’re frightened?’ I asked. He nodded.

             ’It’s alright to be frightened. Acknowledge it, then get on with the normal things you do.’

 ‘But I could be dying!’ he exclaimed.

 ’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.

Not for long though. We started to discuss the election result, or rather non result.

’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.

‘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.’

 ‘Greed,’ I said, ‘pure greed. Still trying to keep up with the Jones’ I suspect’

‘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.’

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.

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’.

Ash Wednesday and Heavy Breathers.......

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.

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.

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.

SLoDG!

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!’

 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.

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.

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…..

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.

It feels like – ‘we are different’. 

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.

'Nuff said. Roll on me she shed! 

Chapter Two - 'The Letters'...........(title credit to Barbara Hegarty!)

Right. So. 

I left here yesterday and posted a link on Facebook to the blog on Grandad’s letter to Mam for her 21^st. 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.

 Lisa informed me she had a letter Mammy wrote her when Lisa was living in San Francisco. The letter is dated March 14^th 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.

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.

I couldn’t sleep, so pottered around the house – a little writing, a little reading, a lot of thinking. 

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!

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.

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!

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.

I started to read it aloud and my voice caught. 

   ‘Don’t read it aloud if you can’t’ said Lee.

    ‘No, I have to. I have to hear her in the room.’ I read on.

Here is the transcribed text of the letter plus the original document 

                                                                                                                   Bons Secours Hosp.

                                                                                                               (S.W.)Ballymun Glasnevin Hill

(Dad’s writing for Ballymun and Hill)

14^th March ‘91

Dear Lisa,

How are you chicks? I believe you are away on holidays but by the time Phyllis gets to you - you’ll be back.

            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.

            Lisa wants to know if I’m in for an oiling.

            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 hell 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.

            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.

            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^th april. She’s delighted. It’s a grand house – I think it was £42,000, so another one for the high jump.

            Evelyn has moved in with Jim and they have rented a house out in Lucan.

            Aisling is home during the week and stays with Owen (sic) at weekends, so little by little they are finally making lives for themselves. T. G.

Me sons, 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.

Seamus is still ‘my hero’ the auld ‘boll---‘ is doing everything for me as I’ve got a lot weaker.

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.

My bedtime is 9.30.

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.

_________________________________________________

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.

(switches to Dad’s writing)

            Just came in to see ‘Big Mama.’ She asked me to add a P.S. So this is it +P.S.

Seamus

(overleaf)

Thursday

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.

Love Liz

I love you

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.

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.

 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.

We love you Mam.