Home For The Holidays

The older I get, the more “home” becomes less a brick and mortar place to kick off my shoes and more an affirmation of love and belonging… it comes on me like the love alien that possessed Zefram Cochrane on Star Trek (It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember that episode). Sometimes I feel at “home” and sometimes I don’t. But I don’t associate it with a place… just people… and peace.

Dixie and I left Ireland on November 11th to go to the St Pete bungalow formerly known as “home” to finish the clean out then have the final closing on the 15th. I was taking my sweet time with those final loads to the Salvation Army just because I could.  But on the 13th, amid boxes of mismatched glassware and faded sheets, I got the call I had been expecting and dreading for two years. My mother in Georgia was sinking fast and if I didn’t drop everything and go go go, I wouldn’t get in that final farewell. It was mid afternoon around three. 

A few quick phone calls and I was at the title office scribbling my signature on who-knows-what. Phil, my haul away hero, once again offered (or at least agreed) to come to my rescue with his truck that could probably drive itself to the donation center by now. No time to sweep the floor or double check the cupboards. Off Dixie and I sped to Roswell. Phil had a key and a day to get the job finished.

The day of my mother's funeral

An adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. We arrived “home” in Roswell around 1:30 AM and were told the family had all decided to sleep instead of keeping a constant bedside vigil. A few days later we were all by my mother’s side when she peacefully passed from this world to the next. She was ready. She had told my brother a few weeks before that she was anxious to get to heaven and “see what it’s all about.” She was 93. Her mother died at 93 as did my other grandmother as well as my Irish born ancestor, James Johnson. I’m going to get very nervous when I turn 92.

All the family came into town for the funeral and we scattered my mother’s ashes around the big rock in the big woods where she played as a child… her childhood “home”.  Whosever idea that was… brilliant! It was a beautiful time together as memorials often are. Everyone loved my mother dearly, and she left a legacy of family unity and hilarious stories that we will cherish and pass on down the line. 

It’s the end of an era, and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

Then it was back to St Pete on the 21st where I had one day to get my annual routine medical appointments in. Talk about timing. We flew to Dallas for Thanksgiving on the 23rd.

My first grandchild, age six weeks, was anxiously waiting to meet his Grammy. My feelings were mixed of course but tilting sharply toward the joy side. I had been anticipating this visit for a long time… years actually.  Needless to say, little Gregory did not disappoint. He greeted me with big bluish-greenish-brownish (who can tell?) eyes, a couple of stinky blowouts and another new “home”, where I knew I would always love and be loved and welcome. We bonded quick and are plotting together as I write this to have him overnight himself to Ireland. It’ll be a first but we’re going to make it happen.

Ted and Leah from Tampa joined us in Dallas for Thanksgiving as has become our tradition in recent years. They made the exciting announcement that, after being in the adoption process for what seems to me like forever, they had been matched with a donor (that’s probably not what you call it because that makes the baby seem like a liver or a kidney), but nonetheless, they were expecting their little Long Awaited One on Christmas Day (just like Mary and Joseph). We were all a mixture of shock and exuberance and urgency. They had no nursery, no car seat, no imagining their dream could come true with so little notice.

We wished them well as they flew back on Dec 1, not much time to let it sink in. They had not even unpacked when they got the call that the birth mother was in labor, little Jesus was jumping the gun and if they didn’t drop everything and go go go, they wouldn’t get there in time for the first triumphant baby breath! It was a four hour drive to Ft Lauderdale. 

But an adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. My second grandchild proved to be both patient and considerate. She graciously waited until they arrived to make her appearance, with 30 minutes to spare. Leah was in the delivery room and cut the cord. After a few days in the NICU for observation, the happy, healthy family of three left the hospital on Dec 6th and I flew back from Dallas to Tampa on schedule on the 10th. A short “home” visit to meet Carolina (pronounced Caroleena) before Dixie and I flew back to Ireland on the 12th. 


It’s the beginning of an era and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

I’ll be spending Christmas at “home”… with Dixie and his family and all our friends here. Then many trips in the new year for all of us to experience our various “homes”.

Merry Christmas to you and your “home” in all its forms.

Buying, Selling and Keeping

I’m back in Ireland. I’ve been going back and forth quite a bit since the summer. My mother in Roswell is slowly declining and I’ve wanted to spend time with her. Then I spent two weeks in St Pete alone just to finish clearing everything out. I should set up a shrine to Facebook Marketplace, because it made selling so easy. I met some nice people who promised to pamper my beloved antiques and put other odds and ends to good use.

St Marys, Youghal

I took out dozens of bags of stuff I sadly conceded was trash. I never realized it was trash until I had to decide what to do with it. Who really needs pots with broken handles and cheap prints in cracked frames? Two heaping truck loads of stuff went to the Salvation Army, and the coup de grace was a mournful visit from the Junk R Us guys. Everything gone... except the things in boxes that I can't bear to part with and Leah is holding for me. I do have some semblance of sentimentality about me.

My second day in town a guy came over to buy a couple of armoires. When he realized I was selling the house… he bought that too! It was that simple. Closing next week.

So back in Ireland we continue the project of fixing up this house. Having sold so much on Marketplace in St Pete, I decided to start shopping there for the things we “need” here. Dixie and I have a new “date day” tradition. We find something on Marketplace we can’t live without (okay, that I can't live without), drive across the county (or farther) to collect it, explore places we’ve never been before, have lunch at some quirky cafe that the seller recommends, and come home with full bellies and partially full wallets, feeling proud of the money we saved shopping second hand.

Can you see the people on the beach?

My favorite excursion so far was to the coastal town of Youghal (pronounced "ya’ll" appropriately enough). Quaint and historic, we found a graveyard walk around a 13th century Protestant church (although I guess it wouldn’t have been called Protestant in the 13th century). Stunning, the views from the cemetery and inside the church. The oak rafters are original and believed to be the oldest in Ireland. Who knew you could see all this and come home with a handmade side table that belonged to someone’s great aunt? Like me, the seller was glad he found a good home for a family treasure. Youghal come.

Table from Youghal

But my favorite gem so far is the fireplace. We had a nice contemporary fireplace already in place, but I have fallen in love with the traditional old cast iron inserts that have ornate canopies and tiles on either side. The surrounds can be cast iron, wood or resin, really doesn’t matter. 

Gotta love the river ladies

They are very common here and dismissed as just out-of-date by many. So you can get one cheap. I cunningly stalked Marketplace and Done Deal (like Craig’s List) until just the right one sprang up. Then I pounced and nabbed it. I paid for it (and the installation) with what I made selling the other one. OMG!  I’m sounding like my mother, the original wheeler dealer who used to embarrass me to death with her haggling! She would have loved shopping social media.

Of course, having an Edwardian style fireplace, I also jumped on an antique coal scuttle (it's the one Bob Cratchit used in Scrooge’s office, I’m positive) and solid brass fireside set. And since that look reminded me of a local pub, I also grabbed a fabulous old Guinness mirror to hang in the kitchen. Where will it end?

Sláinte

I continue to feel an affinity with the past, whether through ancient monuments of stone or small, interesting relics from the last generation. Something about that chain chain chain (not the chain of fools!) but of precious links that connect us all from Adam to Atom. Across time, across the miles, I imagine we are all the same. I know it’s a cliche but it’s true.

And for some reason I find great comfort and inspiration in contemplating the journeys and struggles of those who have gone before. In Roswell, it's my parents and grandparents, going through the great depression, the war and the often bittersweet days that followed. In Ireland, it’s LONG before. My ancient ancestors… here. 

Stuff gets bought and sold, comes and goes. But we cannot negotiate deals to swap our paths with others because they did not originate with us. We can only say "thank you" and hope to make them safer and more meaningful as we continue to carve them out for our descendants. It's deep but you get it, right?

Cleaning Out

I might be dead. One day last week my two children and a niece and nephew gathered at my house in St Pete to survey all the dusty contents and reminisce. They slowly made the circuit from room to room, fingering trinkets from their past… smiling, shaking their heads, remembering all the good times.

Each laid claim to what they wanted, Leah labelling furniture with sticky notes and Thomas hoisting the colossal bag of legos over his shoulder. In the garage he dug out the electric train that made Christmas past extra special… hoping his modest suitcase would accommodate the miles and miles of shiny track (it seemed like that much when he was five).

This is what children do when you’re dead, right? Remember The Bridges of Madison County and a whole host of other movies that begin the same way? It felt odd and eerie to be standing there witnessing this ritual in the flesh. 

I had told them a few weeks earlier I had decided to sell the house. Now I was watching in horror as they dismissed my most prized possessions as stuff they could live without. Since I can’t take it with me (to Ireland, that is) that relegates it to Craig’s List or The Salvation Army. I’m coming back again in September to get it all sorted. I may have an estate sale, just haven’t decided.

Thomas, who has read about the Marie Whats-Her-Name philosophy, encouraged me to take pictures of my beloved treasures, thank them for their companionship and faithful service, then kiss them goodbye. I picture myself calling out to them as they ride off into the sunset… “Come back, Shane… er, Round Oak Table!”

It’s really happening and I’m determined to follow through. You’d think after just moving back to St Pete from Dade City eight years ago I wouldn’t have too much excess to wade through. Wrong! As soon as you stop paying attention, it starts growing again… like toenail fungus. There’s so much STUFF!

My antique bed and dresser were bought by my mother and put in my bedroom when I was nine. Yes, I’ve changed the sheets and mattress but the rest is original. The kitchen table has little indentations from baby spoons pounding it in the early ‘80s. And I searched forever before finding those North Wind pressed back chairs. It’s all going.

Where did all these musical instruments come from? They've been snoozing under beds, slouched against walls, and lying comatose in closets. You know the type. Still, I hated to disturb them. “Wake up, Gang! Time to face the music. You’re all about to be sold!” They don’t deserve this but they’re getting it anyway. Wanna buy a bass?

Don’t think for a second I have been suddenly enlightened and become an environmentally conscious minimalist. Back here in Ireland I’ve already been to salvage yards, antique shops, thrift stores and a big flea market. It’s just so much fun replenishing the stuff supply. This new Irish house will soon be full. Go ahead and shake your head. I know I'm hopeless.

Back To The Fam

My mother has outlived herself. She was doing just fine until one day over a year ago, at age 91, when she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor and into a wonderland of frustration, pain and dementia. She will never walk, cut up her own food or think straight again (but she still insists on doing her own makeup every day. That’s my mom!)

Though she’s in a first rate memory care facility, my brother and his wife visit almost daily and try to help her slog through the muddy mire that harbors her new reality. I am realizing more and more just how heroic they are.

As I take my turn at bat next week, I feel the weight of the game on my shoulders and wonder just how long the nine innings will last. It’s hard to stay positive when you know this is one game you are not going to win.

 I’ll be temporarily leaving my new house and my new Irish life behind. I’m so happy Dixie can come with me this time. The routine has been set for the last couple of years: Fly into Tampa, visit with friends and family for a few days then drive the grueling 500 miles to my brother’s house in Georgia, just a few miles from my mother. He and his family will, ironically, be in Florida for a family vacation. We’ll spend a day or two with them at the beach before the long drive.

I never know exactly what to expect when I walk into my mother’s room at the “home”. She is well tended physically, having saved her pennies most of her adult life anticipating the need for quality geriatric care, which doesn’t come cheap. She always said she didn't want to be a burden to us and she never has been. It's one of the best gifts she ever gave us... Thank you, Mama.

Her own mother, my Gram, was not so shrewd nor thoughtful. She spent ten years in a public nursing home that was the essence of the proverbial hell hole. My mother and aunt took turns visiting, trying to track down stolen goods and clean up the messes they found Gram in. It was a nightmare for my mother and I think that oppressive, urine scented room was the Bible she swore on when she declared that would never happen to her. That’s when she started saving.

Mostly she greets me with cheer when I arrive but doesn’t seem too excited to see me. It’s as if I go there every day. Some days she sleeps almost all day and other days she’s awake and lucid the whole afternoon.

The last visit, when Dixie wasn’t with me, I encountered the tooth fairy situation. Suddenly my mother started denying that her dentures fit in her mouth, and she was certain there was a nurse stealing teeth and replacing them with…. I guess we could call them changeling teeth, like when the fairies steal a human baby and leave a changeling in its place. She begged me to call the police.

After days of trying to reason with her (“yes, Mama, these ARE your teeth!”) and trying to cram them in her mouth (gently, okay?) and even having staff members assist to no avail, I finally admitted defeat and asked the head nurse for help. To my utter shock, she confirmed that the teeth we had in hand (eww) were indeed NOT my mother’s. What? 

Much to everyone’s relief, we found my mother’s teeth in a dish stuck way back under the bathroom sink. My mother was vindicated and I was just puzzled. There should be more TV mysteries set against the backdrop of nursing homes. The wonders never cease.

Vermeer Reunion in June

So for the next two weeks I’ll be catching up with my American life. My son is flying in to Florida from Dallas, we’ll all be at the beach together, then in Georgia I’ll see, not just my mother, but other family and friends. I missed a reunion with the Vermeers and my children last week, and the photos they all posted made me homesick. Can’t imagine how I’ll feel come October when I become a granny for the first time.

I know I can’t have it all, living in two places. I wish I could be there every time the family gathers. I wish I could be there through the coming years to teach my grands how to read and annoy their parents with Irish jigs and reels. I wish I could be there to escort my mother through these final, often dramatic days of her life. We have to make peace with our choices, especially it seems, in later life. And we also have to make peace with the struggle to make peace. It’s just the way it is.

For the record, I’m spending my money like mad, because I know my children will support me in style in my old age, teeth or no teeth. Right? LOL   

      

Say What?

My children are going to North Carolina next month for a reunion with Greg’s siblings and their families. The timing didn’t work out for me, but I would sure love to see them all. 

I have fond memories of visiting my in-laws in Iowa as a young woman. I had never really been out of the South before. I remember being intrigued by the differences, especially the dialect. They were intrigued by me too. Julie, Greg’s five year old sister, held a party for her friends featuring me and my funny talk as entertainment. I brought down the house saying “skewl” over and over. To Julie, that was comedy at its best. 

I was more interested in the different names of things. For instance, a casserole was called “hot dish”. It didn’t seem to matter what was in it, it was just hot dish, as in, “I’m taking hot dish to the church supper”.

Another one was “tavern”. Greg’s mom asked if I wanted tavern for lunch. Hmmm, I knew she didn’t drink so what was this about. I learned that tavern is the Iowa name for Sloppy Joe. Tavern was lovely for lunch. And it might have been served with “pop”, which I was disappointed to learn was just a “soft drink”. I had heard of soda pop from movies and tv and had always imagined it was some creamy, frothy indulgence. Just a coke, after all.

Now that I’m in Ireland I have really been inundated with new words and different uses of words. If you are a traveler, you are way ahead of me and know these. However, they have taken me by surprise. I know I’ve mentioned some of this before in my blog. But here goes again.

I already knew that a car trunk is a boot and gasoline is petrol. Also that diapers are called nappies. But what I didn’t know is that potato chips are called crisps and French fries are called chips (like English fish ’n chips). That took some getting used to. For a while I had MSPD, multiple spud personality disorder. I was always ordering the wrong thing.

Cookies are called biscuits and the Irish really never have regular buttermilk biscuits so there’s no name for them. They are replaced by scones, which are biscuits with sugar and sometimes fruit. So now I eat biscuits for dessert and scones for breakfast.

The other day I asked Dixie to bring some cream cheese from the store. He looked puzzled. I said, “You know, cream cheese”. We were back and forth a while before it finally dawned on him… “Philadelphia!” Yep, that’s it. The label just says “Philadelphia”. He's never heard of cream cheese. Like Vaseline, the brand has become the product.

Yes, these are good.

Irish bacon isn’t really bacon, but more like Canadian bacon, kind of hammy. After searching long and hard, I found bacon in Aldi labeled “American Style Bacon”, tastefully encased in Old Glory. Life without bacon was sounding dismal. But now that I’ve found it, I find I hardly eat it. Eating bacon alone is like drinking alone. Can be depressing.

It breaks my heart to tell you that there are no Irish words for grits, graham crackers, or corn meal. Can’t be found. No cornbread, No S’mores. Sad. I did, however, locate some soda crackers (saltines to some of you). They are marketed as Italian crackers here. And I've stocked up on grits and graham crackers from home.

Good prices too!

It took a while to figure out the stove/cooker conundrum. A stove in Ireland is not what you’d cook on. It refers to a wood stove in the fireplace that warms you. The "range" (they are not familiar with that word) is a "cooker". Makes sense. But I got funny looks when I mentioned cooking on gas vs. electric stoves. Huh?

Ovens are just ovens, thank goodness.

Both grocery carts and hospital gurneys are called trolleys. So fill your trolley with fruits and veggies or you might end up on one.

Over-the-counter meds were another mystery. Acetaminophen (Tylenol) is called paracetamol and packaged as Panadol. Ibuprofen is harder to find. The brands of all our beloved comfort meds are different, like Tums, Bean-o, Gas X (maybe TMI?). I have them mostly figured out though.

It’s all a part of exploring another culture. The names may be different, but we all love our fried potatoes, no matter what they’re called, and we all need relief when we eat too much. When in doubt, I just ask the chemist (pharmacist).  

House Beautiful

Since we made an offer on the house in October, I’ve been inhaling fixer-upper shows on the “telly” as if they were joints (are they still called that?) I actually think I got high a couple of times dreaming about all the open space and the decorating options. I was giddy for sure.

Now that we’re here, let the work begin! I knew there were a few things that needed tidying up and fixing, but like every house I’ve ever bought or rented, this one was full of surprises. Apparently, the lady who lived here was a chain smoker for years. I didn’t remember the smell, but it punched us in the face when we walked in the door.

Every room has to be cleaned and painted, including ceilings. And she took the light fixtures. Who takes light fixtures???

Fun yet?

I was struck by the unusual color of the kitchen cabinets. A kind of creamy light mustard, they made an attractive first impression. On closer examination we have come to realize that they were originally white. Cigarette smoke has stained them to this beautiful golden patina. I’m keeping them just as they are. At least they don’t stink.

There is very worn, dirty carpet throughout the upstairs. We pulled it back to reveal pine tongue and groove floor boards in pretty good condition. Unfortunately they were intended to be sub flooring so the tongues were not tucked into grooves very well. The look is rustic and primitive. I’ve been cleaning them with mineral spirits and doing a little repair work before they’re varnished. Anyone have wood glue?

The floor in the upstairs bath was covered with grimy linoleum. The pine boards underneath are REALLY primitive. But I’m refinishing them as best I can, and we plan to cover most of the floor with bath mats.

All the windows have to be resealed, the downstairs floors need to be replaced, a door (right in the middle of the only long living room wall) has to go (Of course it doesn’t HAVE to go, but I want it to go) and I WANT the fireplace opened up.

Dixie took out some horrible built-ins

Sometimes I just stop and think about what’s going on with me… moving into a new house in Ireland the same year I’ve applied for Medicare. Many of my post-menopausal girlfriends are still sailing smoothly on the same boat they boarded decades ago. Their masts are still strong, and they have a jolly crew of grandchildren who delight them to no end.

I have roses!

Others have chosen roads less traveled and maybe a bit bumpier. Some are getting advanced degrees, traveling the world, still deciding what to be when they grow up. Some are postponing retirement because their work is so important and fulfilling, and they just aren’t ready to let go. And some are feeling triumphant that they have finally realized after all these years that just “being” is enough. I’m so proud of us all. Look at us!

I’ll be a granny in October. I can’t wait! I’ll be traveling way more than I ever imagined, back and forth to keep two dreams alive and well. I know I can do it because my sailing ship, once drifting and taking on water, has been repaired and reconstructed, just like my pine floors. It’s been gleaming now for a couple of years and is voyage ready. All aboard!

A New Hobbit Hole

Did you hear? I bought a house! I’m so excited! Dixie and I have been living in a small, very old terraced (townhouse) rental for a year and a half. These structures are the most common type of housing in towns and villages, and many are made of stone and date back a couple hundred years or more. 

Does this mean I'll be cooking?

Even though it is two story and has three small bedrooms, it feels cramped and claustrophobic. I’m guessing 800 square feet or so in all.  I’m ashamed to complain because I’m told it was common for families with ten or twelve children to live in these homes over the years. I suppose some still do. 

House hunting in Ireland is a little different than in America. In our town there are four realtors (If there are more, they are hiding and I haven’t seen them). I was told they are not called realtors but auctioneers. That immediately made my stomach flutter… in a bad way. Did I need to go to an auction to bid on a house?

View from my new bedroom

No, but the houses are auctioned off nonetheless. The auctioneers represent the sellers and there is no one to represent the buyer. You shop for a house as you’d shop for a car… look online, visit the auctioneer’s office, browse through brochures, drive around.

When you see something that looks promising the auctioneer will show it to you. All the listings are exclusive to a particular auctioneer. You can make an offer and it may be accepted. But until the final closing, it’s still on the auction block and you may lose it at the last minute. But the buyer can also change her mind at the last minute with no penalty. There is a verbal “sale agreed”, but it isn’t binding.

Nice pine floors under the nasty carpet

Sometimes I feel like I’ve just come out of a coma with a little amnesia. The world is familiar and yet not familiar. I ask a lot of questions and no one seems to mind that I ask the same ones more than once. Like when you’re doing a jigsaw puzzle and you keep trying the same piece over and over thinking just maybe you can force it to fit this time. But it never does. 

After my offer was accepted I called on a structural engineer to inspect the house. There were rumors of a lawsuit a few years ago against the builder but no one seemed to know any details. The seller, an elderly woman, said it had been settled out of court but she had no documentation (and little memory) of anything.

The back yard complete with clothes line... Wut?

The engineer spotted some red flags and I almost backed out. But the auctioneer volunteered to make some calls and try to get it sorted. It took weeks… no, months, of investigating on par with Sherlock Holmes to find some answers. He finally located the carpenters who did some remedial work and they met with the engineer and everyone is satisfied that the house is now sound. 

So I bought it. There was no “closing” as such. I just wired the money to an escrow account then dropped by the lawyer’s office one day to sign the contract. Then a couple weeks later I picked up the key from the auctioneer.

It’s a cute house on the edge of town, with fields in the back with horses and cows but just a five minute walk from the town square. It needs interior painting, some new flooring and a few other cosmetic fixes. In the back there’s a waist high stone wall that is covered in briars and weeds. It was built about 200 years ago. I intend to release it from its weed bondage. 

The house has lots of room for when you come to visit. And best of all, it’s just around the corner from the Monk’s Pub. See you soon!